


To Keep and to Be Kept

by ringwaldo



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Angst, But I gotta tell ya guys I couldn't save Stan, Drug Addiction, Eddie Kaspbrak Lives, Eddie be dumb sometimes, Emotional Healing, First Kiss, First Time, Fluff, Hammockcore, Homophobic Language, Internalized Homophobia, Longing for days, M/M, No Underage Sex, POV Eddie Kaspbrak, POV Richie Tozier, Panic Attacks, Reddie, Richie Tozier's terrible tattoo, Smut, So much angst, Teenage and adult Reddie, The Hammock (IT), mentions of death and suicide, nurse Richie
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-22
Updated: 2020-08-22
Packaged: 2021-03-06 23:47:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 33,580
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26007460
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ringwaldo/pseuds/ringwaldo
Summary: The quiet and lonely dissatisfaction of Eddie's entire adult life had finally taken shape: The shape of the boy who had come to him in his desperate sleeplessness, six weeks previous.
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 13
Kudos: 74





	To Keep and to Be Kept

** Part 1 **

With a single, deft flick of his big toe, Eddie sent Richie's glasses tumbling to the floor. Only partially satisfied by Richie's sigh of exasperation, he followed with a gentle but decisive kick to the side of his head, for good measure. 

Richie fixed him with a glare from his now regular-sized eyes. It was easy to forget what his eyes actually looked like, inflated as they always were to owl-like proportions by his glasses. "Why are you like this today? Did your mom let you have fucking Frosted Flakes for breakfast or something? You need a time out."

Eddie was having none of it. "It will all be over when you get your fat ass out of MY hammock, Trashmouth".

It was true; Richie had been flicking through comics in the clubhouse hammock for almost forty minutes, in flagrant violation of the agreed-upon ten-minute time limit. That shit simply could not stand. Eddie considered it his civic duty to ensure such selfish behaviour did not go unopposed and, since planting himself between Richie's legs, had been waging a war of minor (but steadily escalating) annoyances, in righteous retaliation. He was doing this for all of them; it didn't matter that the other Losers had long given up on their hammock time… It was _the principle_ of the thing. Also–and this was a minor issue, compared with the blatant injustice of Richie's hammock monopoly–Richie had been giving the entirety of his limited attention span to the comic in his hands for _ages._.. Save for the occasional smartass comment directed at some other of the group, of course.

Eddie wasn't sure why this annoyed him so much, but watching Richie's magnified eyes scan the comic, brows furrowing occasionally, without so much as a glance across at Eddie was deeply aggravating. With each page turned, Eddie became more restless. He had fidgeted around, knocking against his friend's legs and tilting the hammock left and right. He had joined loudly in the other Losers' general conversation without turning his head, so that his voice projected straight into Richie's face. He had mentioned his mother _twice_ , confident that Richie couldn't possibly resist the opportunity to wax lyrical about Sonia's vagina... And still, nothing. The agitation built up within Eddie like a ball of television static. Then, when Richie had finally looked up, not even at Eddie but at _Bev_ , for Christ’s sake, Eddie's patience had snapped. Off go the glasses, Tozier.

"Jesus, _fine_ then, if you want a seat so bad," replied Richie, sounding uncharacteristically defeated. He shifted in his seat, reaching a hand to the beam supporting the hammock to steady himself, before attempting to rise from the swinging fabric and tangle of knobbly adolescent legs. Eddie's heart leapt like a frog. Not for a second had he expected Richie to actually give up his throne, and he had a sudden premonition of what it would feel like to be sitting alone; how cold his legs would be, how empty the hammock would feel, how lightly it would swing beneath his weight alone.

Eddie needn't have worried. Richie fumbled at the beam for moment before bringing his hand down, proudly displaying the middle finger he had 'found'.

"Here you go," he chimed, "sit on this". He grinned at Eddie, clearly pleased with himself and preparing for the other to bite back with his customary vitriol. He was met instead with a laugh of relief, the tense knot in Eddie's stomach dissolving with the drop of Richie's full weight back into the hammock. The relief was momentary; seeing Richie's expression of mild perplexity at his response, Eddie's guts filled with hot, flaring shame. Although he couldn't really explain it, he knew that he was not supposed to want Richie's warm limbs pressed against him the way that he did.

Eddie knew that there was a difference between a friend and a best friend. He could visualise the nature of his friendships as circles expanding out from himself, with Richie in the first circle; Bill in the next; Stan, Bev, Mike and Ben in the following; various kids from school beyond them; and so on until everyone he knew and liked was standing around him at varying distances, like the rings of a tree. He knew that for most kids the first circle, the best friend circle, was special. It entitled the one or two people in there to special treatment, a particular closeness that no other friend could or should expect. And that was cool. For Eddie, Richie was the person in that circle, and that was cool too.

Except. _Except,_ more and more it felt like the inner boundary of Richie's circle was dissolving, and he was being pulled closer, closer even than a best friend should be, right into the centre of the circle that Eddie alone was supposed to occupy. Sometimes it felt good, like he was gaining something _better_ than a best friend, and he would try to think of a word for what that might be but always came up wanting. More often though, Eddie saw in his mind's eye the boundary line dissolving, and some sort of vacuum pulling Richie towards him. Richie would panic, grab wildly for a hand-hold in this imaginary circle, scream as the force of Eddie's will tried to pull him closer than he wanted to be, closer than it was right for a boy to be with his best friend.

It was a weird and unsettling image, and one that he saw often: In the moments when he allowed his hand to linger against Richie's body a beat too long, or enjoyed Richie's casual grasp on his leg a little too much. Or, when he unleashed a comment that was a fraction too biting, after watching Richie laugh with another of his friends. Or in the split-second of eye-contact Stan made with him before rolling his eyes, when Eddie had been acting out for Richie's attention. Sometimes, for a wild moment, he thought Stan could see it as well, could look into his mind and see his predatory heart dragging Richie in. It was silly thought; obviously Stan couldn't read his mind, and even if he could, he doubted he could make sense of this image that was as much a _feeling_ as it was a picture. Indeed, if Eddie himself lacked the ability to interrogate these fleeting impressions, to describe in words what they meant or why they made him feel so sick, he really didn't see how _anyone_ could understand them. All he knew was that he wanted Richie all to himself, and that it was somehow _wrong_ and completely unfair of him to want that. What sucked the most was that it was burning him up inside, and the one person he could usually talk to about difficult things was the number one person he couldn't tell. It felt really shitty to have to keep a secret like that from his best friend, but it would be far shittier to open his mouth and pour all of this black selfishness onto Richie, who _(bad)_ had done nothing to deserve it, and _(worse)_ would be straight-up horrified. Maybe Eddie didn't know much about the world, but he knew that Richie would never look at him the same if he told him about the feeling, and he also knew that that could never be allowed to happen. It was better–far better–to be grateful for having a best friend, and leave it at that. Eddie could relish the brief, bright moments when he stole an extra touch or look or piece of Richie's attention, and ride out the sick, guilty feeling that inevitably followed, and things would be okay.

Right now, Eddie needed a quick recovery. He hastily arranged his features into a look of disgust.

"Oh, really mature Richie! What is your fucking problem, why can't you just get up and let someone else sit for a change?!"

"I'd love to help, Eds, but you're just so cute when you're mad. Besides, I can't walk... I visited your Mom last night".

"Fuck you! And don't call me 'Eds'!" Eddie retorted, looking to the others for backup. Only Stan met his gaze, sending a brief look of helpless exasperation before resuming his conversation with Bill.

***

Richie had been ignoring Eddie on purpose. Well, ignoring was maybe the wrong word. He had been steadfastly maintaining what was evidently a very convincing display of disinterest, whilst Eddie wriggled about, the polyester of his shorts scratching audibly against the rough material of the hammock.

In truth, Richie's brain had been working ferociously to direct at least a portion of his attention towards both the comic in his hands, and the Losers scattered around the clubhouse. With enormous strength of will, he was able to focus enough on the book to scan the pages at what seemed like a reasonable pace, seeing the words and pictures but comprehending very little of the story. Likewise, by tuning in at semi-regular intervals to the general chatter happening around him, he was able to interject smart-ass comments often enough to maintain a veneer of interest in the other Losers. It was no mean feat, given that at least three-quarters of his attention was directed decidedly, if surreptitiously, at the other body in the hammock.

While Richie's ears practically steamed with the effort of this studied nonchalance, his senses were greedily drinking in the warm press of his friend, folded around him like living origami. He could hear the small noises Eddie made when he shifted for comfort in the too-small hammock, and the occasional verbal outburst when he chimed in on the others' conversations; strange remarks that Richie badly wanted to make fun of, but managed with his dwindling willpower to resist. He could see Eddie, too. There was a large tear in the spine of the comic book, which Richie allowed himself to gaze through at intervals, subtly shifting his hold on the book to frame part of Eddie's face, or arm, or the small patch of pale skin revealed beneath his shirt as he writhed about hyperactively.

Far from relishing 'ignoring' his favourite person in the world, Richie would much rather be hanging out with Eddie and the others in a normal fucking way, instead of the complex mental gymnastics that were giving him a headache. It was just that this 'casual indifference' towards Eddie was the only way he knew to compensate for the obvious excess of time and attention he had been giving him in the past little while. _Obvious_ because if both Stan and Bev had given him quizzical looks in the past week that blatantly questioned _what the fuck was up_ , then he clearly was not keeping his shit under wraps like meant to. What exactly they knew or thought they knew wasn't totally clear, but Richie was smart enough to know that he'd better get it together quick-smart, before they could put any more of the pieces together, or any of the others could catch on.

Richie was only a few months older than Eddie, but he was smart. Smarter than his terrible impulse control and fondness for dirty jokes might suggest, smarter than most kids his age... Maybe even smarter than Bill. And unlike Eddie, who had been completely cloistered by his mother, Richie knew quite a fair bit about the world, and about himself. Like how if he talked fast and loud enough, he could avoid saying anything real, and no one would notice. And how he sometimes got a weird pain behind his ear when he ate sour candy. And how he was in love with his best friend.

Completely in love.

Richie held no illusions about that fact. He supposed it had been going that way for a long while, evolving so slowly that if he talked enough shit, he could distract even himself. But, on the otherwise-normal Fall day that he had watched the comfortable ease with which Ben and Bev reached for one another, interlacing their fingers, and in watching felt his own hand twitch reflexively towards Eddie's beside him, he could no longer ignore it. Richie had needed his fast brain and smart mouth then, and they hadn't let him down: A split-second after he registered Eddie's hand against his own, understood the significance of this brief departure of his senses, Richie had tightened his grip, pulled Eddie's hand conspicuously in front of them, and in a shrill voice cried, "Oh Eds! Darling! Say you love me as disgustingly as Bennie and Bevvie love each other! How about a smooch?!". Blessedly, it had been received as any other bad Trashmouth joke would, and Richie had ostentatiously feigned a need to pee before climbing the clubhouse ladder, walk-running beyond eyeline of the hatch, and vomiting quietly into some bushes.

Yep, Richie was smart, alright. He knew he was in love with Eddie, and he knew what it meant to be in love with Eddie. Although he had entertained some fleeting crushes on girls in his grade, Eddie was a boy, and loving him made Richie _gay_ (he didn't so much as _hear_ the term bisexual until he was seventeen). His parents weren't especially homophobic–in fact, in the scheme of things they were pretty accepting of "the gays", as his father called them–but Richie knew the rest of the world to be a much meaner place than the Tozier living room. For one, he watched enough TV to know that in 1989 being gay was either a punchline or a death sentence, depending on whether you were watching a sitcom or the news. Second, the most popular insult in the schoolyard was 'fag'. It was the trump-card of one-word insults; not very imaginative, but effective. Everyone knew that to be called a fag was to be called something _bad_. Had Richie been old enough or interested enough to take the temperature of Derry as a whole–to listen to and understand the town gossip shared between adults at the grocery store, or discern the subtext of any number of _Derry News_ articles reporting violent crimes–he'd have known that there were far, _far_ worse things that could happen to him in Derry than to be called a fag (though perhaps, on some level, he was more aware of this than he would admit). Finally–and if Richie, in his bravest moments, could contemplate maybe thinking about stomaching the first two problems, it was this that brought his fantasies to a screeching halt–he would lose Eddie altogether if he let on about his feelings. He was pretty sure Eddie could come to terms with Richie liking boys–maybe–but old Eds was tightly wound at the best of times, squeamish and quick to disgust, and knowing Richie liked him in _that way_ would send him spiralling into a neurotic meltdown that would terminate their friendship faster than anvil from the sky. And that would be the worst, _worst._ Fuck _no._

So, Richie worked–really worked–to act and to _believe_ that his realisation had changed nothing. He did a pretty good job of it too; he found that when people expected you to take nothing seriously, say nothing sincere, they didn't bother broaching personal topics with you. All in all, it was pretty easy not to draw attention to the... _Thing,_ that now hung permanently and invisibly in the air between he and Eddie. Even when they were alone together, he tread the emotional water ferociously, whilst barely a ripple betrayed his wild thrashings to the surface. Yep, that part was easy.

What _wasn't_ easy–what left him too agitated to sleep; left the covers of his comics crumpled and sweaty from his anxious grip; left his school lunch uneaten in its paper bag as his stomach knotted and swirled–was the _wanting._ _God-fucking-dammit_ , the _wanting_. The relentless metronome swing between electric excitement and crushing despair; the chill-up-the-spine rush of Eddie's bare legs brushing his own, and the icy shame of knowing that Eddie hadn't even registered the contact, and would not have allowed it if he knew what it stirred in his friend. Something in Richie would soar when he made Eddie laugh _;_ that same thing would swoop sickeningly through the floor of his stomach when Eddie gave that laugh to someone else. And worst, oh-fucking-shame the _worst,_ were those moments when Richie felt the stirrings of lust, that dark cousin of love that came out at night, slinking, unbidden, between his ribs and down his front. For all of his dick jokes and bravado, Richie was in truth frightened of this part of himself. It made him feel so much older than Eddie. Although for part of every year they were numerically the same age, Richie was aware of being more... _Mature_ than Eddie was. As his embarrassed father would put it, quietly in the living room whilst his Mom made a loud affair of washing the dishes, he was 'becoming a man'. He was _becoming a man_ , and so far as Richie could see, Eds was steadfastly _staying a boy_. Although they were still interested in the same things, played together in the same way, there were times when Eddie seemed so young and this, on top of every other conflicted feeling and thought swirling through him like a trade wind, made him feel like a bona fide piece of shit.

So, Richie 'Trashmouth' Tozier, the boy who couldn't shut the fuck up to save his own life... Well, he shut the fuck up. And he swallowed it down. And it was a goddamn shame he couldn't tell anyone about it, because he did a really, really good job. Truly a fine effort from young Master Tozier. Until he got complacent, and he slipped, and Beverley and Stan had–each on separate occasions–furrowed their brows and searched his face for _what the fuck was going on with you around Eddie, today?_

And so here he was, on day two of his campaign for Mayor of _Cool-and-Casual-Around-Kaspbrak... ville._

So far, so good.

** Part 2 **

There was singing coming from the bathroom. Loud singing. Richie groaned quietly and rolled onto his back, throwing an arm across his face to shield his eyes from the early sunlight filtering through the open shades. It was a Sunday... Saturday? He squeezed his Bourbon-hazed brain... Sunday. Okay.

The singing in his bathroom grew louder as the shower faucet squeaked off. Jesus, _really?_ Richie opened one eye experimentally, closed it again, slowly opened both eyes. They felt like they were full of sand. He groped for his glasses on the nightstand, came up wanting, and instead grabbed his phone and held it several inches from his face. Eight AM. He groaned again. Brunch with Maria wasn't until eleven; there was no good reason to be awake this early. And he had been having a good dream, too. He dropped his head to the pillow and tried briefly to fall back into it, but it was no use. Exactly what he had dreamt he didn't know; Richie's dreams always seemed to slip like water through his cupped hands as soon as he woke. On rare occasions, he could hold onto vague impressions of the characters in his dreams. Often, they were children, a fact which would no doubt send any good therapist into a delighted monologue about his stunted emotional development. More often though, he was left with only the fading impression of an emotion. Sometimes terror. Usually terror. But now and then it was joy, or something more complex and elusive that felt like a warm bath but left him feeling listless for days, like a sort of comedown. Anyway, he was awake now, and it seemed like that would continue.

Ugh.

Richie rolled over and opened the bottom drawer of his nightstand, digging for a pair of shabby old glasses that were at least two prescriptions too old. They made his head throb, but he'd need them if he was going to track down his usual pair. The tendency to cast off your glasses in the dark whilst drunk is a real liability when you're blind as fuck. Richie collapsed back into the pillows and rubbed his temples. The singing from the bathroom had been replaced with humming, and the sound of his own toothbrush being dragged unceremoniously around the mouth of... Whom? Was it Jeremy? No, that was over, had been over for a month. And it wasn't Chris, because that was last week. He remembered because it had been Friday the thirteenth, and Chris had bored him half to death with trivia about the film franchise for hours before Richie could get him into bed. He shuddered at the memory. Okay then, think. It was something jock-sounding, Ryan or Brad or...

The bathroom door opened.

"Trent!" Richie almost shouted in surprise at his remembering.

"Good morning sunshine! I hope you liked the performance. I don't sing for just anybody, you know". Trent had a towel wrapped around his waist, his dark brown hair wet and combed back across his head.

"I did," Richie lied, "although I think you pissed off the sparrows, they usually don't sing around here until at least ten o'clock".

Trent didn't get the hint. His face broke into a smile, and he treated Richie to a roguish wink from one big, brown eye. Yikes. Trent was _hot._

"So listen, there's this really nice place just opened up a couple blocks from here, you wanna get breakfast?"

Nope. "Thanks, but I have to meet my agent soon, and since I'm up I should really read through some of the shit she sent me like a month ago".

Trent looked a little disappointed, but he recovered quickly. "Well I saw you've got eggs in the fridge, I could make you some-"

"No... Thanks, but when I say my agent sent me a stack of shit, I basically have to read the _Odyssey_ by lunchtime". Richie compensated for his terse opening with a warm smile. Anyway, Trent could surely handle the rejection; he'd probably pick up some nine on his way out of the building anyway. All of the guys Richie brought home were good-looking–without exception, slim and pretty Bambi-looking motherfuckers with brown eyes like saucers–but this guy was next level. He'd be fine.

"Uh... Okay. Well, I had a nice night, maybe I'll see you around soon?"

"Yeah me too, sounds good... Buddy," Richie had forgotten his name again. "I'm gonna jump in the shower, just let yourself out".

-

Richie closed the bathroom door behind him and rubbed his eyes aggressively with the heels of his hands.

"Ughhhhh".

He found his other glasses; they were on the counter, where he often put them when he brought someone home. Richie liked to do it with the lights on, but his glasses off; he enjoyed being able to see the vague form of the other man in his bed–the outline of his body and the colour of his hair and eyes–through the blurry prism of his corneas. No clue why. Presumably it was some vestigial trace of the long struggle with his sexuality.

Richie was meditating on this thought as he stepped into the shower. The slam of the glass door brought flashing to mind the graffitied men's room stalls that had formed the backdrop to his sexual life in his late twenties and early thirties. It was an uncomfortable memory; all those shameful, sticky fumblings and bathroom blowjobs. He was thirty-three before he had fucked a man horizontally. That life was mostly in his past now, though. Richie had found a certain peace, and had in the very least accepted the fact that he no longer enjoyed sleeping with women, a pursuit that had gradually lost its appeal across the latter half of his twenties. These days he was exclusively boys-only in bed, and if it was expedient to let the press see him out with a female friend from time to time and speculate on their relationship... Well, that was just showbusiness.

Suds ran down Richie's face as he soaped his hair. Yep, he was free to have meaningless sex with as many doe-eyed hotties as he liked. And he _liked_. Having attained a certain level of minor celebrity, it was pretty easy for Richie to find willing bodies to share his bed. Maria, his agent and friend, was always encouraging him to find a nice guy and settle down. She was convinced that his career could handle the brief rash of press when _Beverley Hills Comedian and Radio Personality Richie Tozier Comes Out!_ , that it would actually be good. After all, this was not the same world Richie grew up in, and in terms of public perception he was certainly better off being seen with a wholesome young gentleman on his arm than with his hands down some guy's pants on the dancefloor twice a week.

"Ow, _fuck!"_

A brief return to the present as Richie drew blood, shaving carelessly without a mirror. Hissing, he turned inward once more.

In truth, Richie had made a few half-hearted attempts at the relationship thing, but it never felt right. Whichever lovely man he dated exclusively for a couple of weeks quickly began to feel insubstantial, vacuous. Something important was always missing, and though Richie could never put a finger on quite what it was, he grew quietly resentful and ended things shortly after they began. It was always the same, and the worst part was how empty it left him feeling. Richie was lonely, and that was never in sharper relief than when he turned away the kind and confused men who only wanted to make him happy. Over the years, he had come to understand that he just was not meant to have somebody in his life in that way, and that was that. What he _could_ have was blurry, lights-on sex with every mocha-eyed catalogue model in greater Los Angeles, and that was most definitely not a bad thing.

Richie towelled off, stepping close to the mirror to examine his crows' feet and remind himself that he could keep doing it _for now,_ at least.

***

The New York City skyline glittered between the edges of Eddie's windscreen. He had seen this view a hundred, maybe a thousand times, and it was easy to take it for granted. Maybe it was the particular clarity of this still, cold night, but Eddie was struck by how beautiful it was. Beautiful and... Sad? Not quite sad... Melancholy _. Lonely_. He saw the skyline as he imagined the thousands of small-town hopefuls who migrated to 'The Big Apple' each year saw it, returning to the city from their thanksgivings at home.

Eddie had been on the road for hours and hours, and his tired brain slipped easily into absent-minded fantasy. He imagined these ambitious kids from rust-belt towns riding the Greyhound from Who-Cares, Ohio and Nowhere, Illinois; the family fireside fresh in their minds, turkey sandwiches packed by Mom into their bags, being drawn at sixty-miles-an-hour back into the city that promised so much and gave so very little. They would tell their families that they couldn't wait to Get Back into It, tell themselves that they were returning to the place where they belonged. And they would stare fixedly at those beautiful lights and try not to think about the loneliness waiting for them in a city of eight million.

Eddie knew how they felt.

***

Myra was watching Family Feud and drinking a glass of Moscato when Eddie walked in the front door.

"Hey Sweetie", she called from the living room "how was your day?", and before Eddie could answer, "come and watch, these dopes answered 'something you eat in the morning' with 'sandwiches'!" She cackled.

Eddie crossed into the living room, leant over to kiss his wife's forehead, and dropped heavily onto the sofa to her right. Myra grabbed his hand.

"Oh Eddie! Your hands are _freezing_! Your circulation must be off, have you had your cholesterol checked lately? You _have_ been eating pretty badly-"

"I'm fine, Myra!" Eddie half-snapped. She looked hurt.

Eddie sighed, "Sorry, I'm just tired". He drew a calming breath. "Dr. Jameson took my cholesterol at my last physical, it's fine. I just had the window cracked for some air and it got cold".

Myra's expression lightened a little. "It's okay Eddie bear, you know I just worry because I love you".

Blue light shone onto Eddie's face as he stared, unblinking, at the TV.

"I love you too, My."

***

Eddie stared at the crown moulding. His wife breathed heavily beside him, deeply asleep. After Eddie had eaten his leftover dinner–alone at the kitchen table, not bothering to reheat it–and showered the workday off his aching body, he and Myra had retired to bed, and made love. Of course they had. It was a Tuesday.

This weekly ritual, ( _enforced_ ) suggested by their marriage counsellor, had proceeded as it always did: Eddie took a shower, then put on his pyjamas. Myra was already in bed, also in her pyjamas, and Eddie flicked off the light. They kissed lightly on the lips and took their pyjamas back off, and Eddie proceeded to embody the gentle and ( _self-denying_ ) attentive lover that Myra preferred. He caressed her skin, rubbed his hand gently between her legs until she shuddered through her climax, and then thrust perfunctorily into her just long enough for his tastefully faked orgasm to be believable. Myra had thanked their counsellor for her advice; told her that she was sexually satisfied, and that their marriage was benefitting. Eddie had smiled and nodded, biting his tongue fit to draw blood.

Eddie closed his eyes, tried briefly to fall asleep before very quickly giving it up as a bad job. His sleep had been getting worse and worse over the past few months. He would wake often in the night, trying hard not to toss and turn and rouse his wife. It was especially bad on Tuesdays; Eddie hadn't climaxed with his wife in over a year, and without the warm kiss of serotonin on his brain, he struggled to shut off afterwards. Eddie had mentioned this pseudo-casually to his doctor about nine months ago, worried it could be a symptom of some sort of horrible cancer, but Dr. Jameson had assured him of his good health, slapped his shoulder, and told him to loosen up with a drink before heading to the sack. It hadn't helped.

Eddie had moved past frustration, by this point. He was no longer perturbed by the crappy sex. Indeed, he had never enjoyed sex terribly much in the first place; he figured that he just wasn't That Sort of Person. His dick worked, sure. He felt some pleasure from the right pressure on the right nerve-ending, felt the build-and-release and moment's sparkling weightlessness of orgasm, like any mammal would. It just _wasn't that good._ Until the intervention of their two-bit shrink, Eddie had been content for the couple to roll around a few times a year, after some positive self-talk (and sometimes a quick spin around his medicine cabinet) helped Eddie to get into character. No, Eddie was used to sex being an inconvenience at best, even if the problems with finishing were a recent development. It was the insomnia that was the real killer: Sub-par sleep on any given night, and barely a wink every fucking Tuesday. He would get himself aroused enough to give Myra what she expected, and then have to lay there, keyed-up with no release. That was what he told himself, at least. Problem with that little theory was that on a few occasions he'd become frustrated enough to roll carefully from beneath Myra's arm, creep quietly into the en suite without turning on the light and with a little perseverance, finish himself off in the dark. He'd crept back into bed with those lovely warm neurotransmitters swirling around his brain and fallen... straight into a listless wakefulness that was no better than before. So, what the fuck?!

If Eddie was honest with himself (which he rarely was), the hopeless agitation of Tuesday nights was less about his blue balls, and more about the vivid weekly reminder that he would spend the rest of his life acting out the same, sad charade. Fucking someone he didn't want to fuck. Sleeping next to a woman he didn't want to touch, or smell, or... Talk to. He did love Myra, or at least he thought he did. Before Myra, he could not recall loving anyone besides his mother, and he could certainly identify the same strains of nurturance, affection and ( _suffocation_ ) devotion in their relationship. So yeah, it was love. Still, he felt tremendous guilt for not appreciating the constant and caring companion he had found in Myra, and he knew that there was no point in wondering about someone else; there was no one out there who could love him better than she did. So, Eddie watched TV with his wife, laughed when she laughed, told her he loved her, and had miserable sex with her on Tuesday nights.

Eddie sighed, squeezed his eyes shut. He really was trying to be grateful for what was, for all intents and purposes, a comfortable, fortunate life. So why, _why_ , was he still laying there, awake, with the growing sense that something was missing. It was a peculiar feeling, one he couldn't quite describe... There was probably a perfect word for it in German. Shame he hadn't learned any German in school. Or had he? Eddie could barely remember a thing from his young life. Myra had sometimes accused him of being unsentimental, but it was hard to be sentimental when you had nothing to look back on with any amount or emotion. He figured that was why he rarely felt the need to hang onto mementos of the past. The sum of material keepsakes that he had accumulated across his almost-four decades fit neatly into a cookie tin. There were some photos of his early dates with Myra and of his parents before their respective deaths, his first drivers' licence (issued at age twenty-three, when Sonia had finally relented and let him take his test), some rings and a watch that had apparently belonged to his grandfather, and…

Eddie's eyes flew open. A sudden rush of adrenaline burst from his solar plexus, sending chills along his extremities and spinning his head. Not knowing why, but feeling in some incontrovertible way that is was _important_ , he slipped quickly out of bed and padded quietly across the room. Down the hall, breathing fast, and then to the linen closet; he opened the doors and stretched tall, retrieving the small green cookie tin from amongst the spare sheets on the top shelf. Tin in hand, he crossed to the kitchen, switched on the light and sat down at the table, placing the it careful in front of him. He had no idea what he was looking for, but opening the tin, quickly found it amongst the photos and trinkets: A square handkerchief, yellowed with age, and inside a single, cracked spectacle lens. Dark spots crept into the edges of Eddie's vision and he felt lightheaded, as if rising too quickly from a hot bath. He closed his eyes, breathed deeply, then opened them again and picked up the lens, turning it over in his shaking hands. It was coke-bottle thick, with black grime rubbed into the cracks spreading like a spider's web across its surface. Eddie's chest hurt–ached–and he badly wanted to cry. Why? What was so meaningful about this piece of detritus from a forgotten life that it had dragged him, reeling, out of bed? He raised it to his eye and peered through, briefly amused by the strength of the prescription. Whoever had worn this lens was nigh-on blind. He moved it away from his face and caught his reflection in its curved surface. The image was distorted. Eddie looked closer and was hit with another wave of vertigo as the image of a young boy stared back. A young boy wearing glasses. Eddie shook his head frantically, blinked hard and looked again, seeing only his own pale and wide-eyed reflection. He was not getting enough sleep. He was _losing_ it. Skin still prickling from the fresh assault on his nerves, Eddie wrapped the lens carefully in its cloth and returned it to the tin, stashing both back in the closet.

He slid back between the sheets, noticing for the first time the layer of sweat that was coating his body. The image of the boy was already fading from his mind, but it left behind an immense hollowness, an indefinable longing that was somehow tinged with a small flare of joy, like a single candle in a great, black cave. Even the Germans wouldn't have a word for this one. Eddie cried.

** Part 3 **

Eddie!

It was Eddie, had always been Eddie. It hit Richie like a freight train the moment he looked across the banquet room and saw him, backlit by the tank light and haloed with goldfish. The translucent ghosts of a hundred anonymous men seemed to fill the space between them, poor facsimiles of the one now locking eyes with Richie through the pale shadows of twenty-seven years of longing.

As always, Richie's first impulse under emotional duress was to make a joke. There were surely some good chucks to be found, somewhere in this heady realisation. What _isn't_ hilarious about fucking a hundred different versions of Eddie, six ways from Sunday? _Hardy-ha-HA_. And without even knowing it! A RIOT! A rush of unpleasant sensation flooded Richie's guts and then charged into his head, and for a moment his vision swam. It was like his life since leaving Derry was collapsing into a concertina fold, an Eddie-shaped hole punched through every layer.

"Ho-ly-shit."

The words fell, unbidden, from Richie's mouth. _Uh-oh, get the reins back, Trashmouth._ In a split second and with a little effort, Richie regained mastery over his voice, then limbs, then face. Over years of working in live entertainment, he had developed a preternatural ability to maintain outward composure, whilst his internal infrastructure collapsed in a mania of lights and sirens. Last and blessedly, Richie's frontal lobe came back online: No. No jokes about bedding someone you’ve just met for the first time in over twenty years. At least buy him a drink first. _Ha ha._

Eddie spared him the effort of finding something to say.

"Richie Tozier! I thought for sure someone would have killed you by now." His smile was enormous. "I see your mother still dresses you."

Richie crossed the room and shook the unfamiliar hand of his childhood best friend, before they pulled each other into a hug. He knew fully well that until Mike's call, Eddie hadn't thought about him in decades, let alone whether he had pushed anyone to homicide quite yet.

"Nobody's really put their back into trying, Eds. I've almost forgotten what it's like to fear murder on the daily _." I love you. "_ And _your_ Mom chose this outfit special, so take it up with her." _I've always loved you._

Eddie shook his head, still smiling. "Asshole".

The Losers moved around the room, embracing one another in turn and exchanging pleasantries. With the exception of Mike, they each wore identical expressions of polite, slightly bemused happiness that acknowledged the joy of meeting old friends, whilst trying to ignore the uncomfortable paradox of simultaneously remembering each other, and realising that they had never really forgotten in the first place. Richie read this look on Beverley's face, and for a moment felt relief; the others were quietly wigging out as well. Then, as the group moved to take their places at the table, he glanced across and met Eddie's gaze. Eddie smiled benignly through his own haze of déjà vu, but something seemed to flash across those dark irises, like he was looking for something in Richie's face that he couldn't quite place. It was only for a second, but it brought Richie undone once more.

"I'll be back in a sec!" He declared to no one in particular, pushing his chair hastily away from the table.

"You good, Richie?" asked Mike, his forehead creased with concern; he was already keeping a close eye out for signs of unravelling.

Richie forced a smile over his shoulder as he marched quickly towards the door. "Gotta make room for the _pu pu_ platter!" It was childish at best, but it did the job.

Mike crinkled his nose, "beep-beep, Richie," and turned back to the others, who laughed in recognition of the familiar phrase from their childhoods.

As the lavatory door swung closed with a bang, Richie barfed loudly into the blue water of the toilet. That felt familiar too. _Ah, memories._

-

Richie was feeling much better now. His little drive of the porcelain bus down memory lane seemed to have dislodged whatever demon had been wringing his oesophagus, and blowing smoke into his brain. At the very least, it had earned him sufficient reprieve to; a, actually appreciate his reunion with these old and adored friends, including Eddie who before anything else was the best friend he had ever had; and b, remember that a homicidal clown was looking to eat all their hearts, or whatever kinky shit it was into.

They drank hard.

"Fifty bucks says Richie has a shitty tattoo," Bill called into the general pandemonium. They'd been comparing notes on the bad decisions of their past twenty years.

Ben snorted into his glass, spraying beer into the air. "No way he has just one!" Laughs of assent bugled around the table.

Richie stood up, affecting an air of lofty offence. "Joke's on you, you pack of dicks. I have one tattoo, and it's fucking badass." Looks of mirthful disbelief shone back at him. "Fine, you wanna see it? I'll show you."

Nods from the audience. Richie made a show of unbuckling his belt, as Bev shielded her eyes in mock horror. The other Losers watched him with expressions of childish intrigue on their faces. They could have been eleven again, rapt with a particularly mind-blowing show-and-tell. After a pause for dramatic effect, during which he gazed meaningfully into each upturned face, Richie dropped his pants, revealing a dark spot on his upper thigh about three inches across. The others drew inward, squinting to make out the details of the tattoo. It was a picture of Richie's own face.

Screams of laughter erupted around the table. Mike was crying actual tears, clutching Bill's own heaving shoulder. Both Ben and Bev had their faces in their hands; only the white arches of their teeth were visible, howling with glee. Eddie looked up at Richie, shaking his head and laughing so hard that he struggled to catch his breath.

"You- haven't- changed- one- bit!" He managed between gasps.

Richie stared back, grinning broadly into Eddie's face. It was good _._ It was _so_ good. The dancing clown could eat a dick, this was all that mattered.

***

_Poor Stan._

Eddie was walking along Kansas Street, hands buried deep in the pockets of his coat. Beautiful Stan, neat and contained. Beautiful Stan, dead and naked in the cold bathwater. It was an image he'd struggled to shake after the Losers' raucous meal came to a close. Eddie was sad for Stan, and angry too; Stan had gotten away, or thought he had, but that cock-sucking clown followed him into his own home, miles and miles and miles from here, crept up and strangled the life from him with only a memory. It made Eddie's blood boil. There was something else in there too, though. Something like guilt. Something about Stan having died whilst forgotten by his friends, about the fact that if Eddie had read his name in an obituary, he would have barely raised an eyebrow at its familiarity. It felt heavy to Eddie, like he'd let his friend down.

He stopped moving for a second and sighed, taking in the houses lining the street. Many looked new, but a handful he could recognise from his childhood. So much was different, and yet so much was the same. Eddie fell back into his reverie with another sigh. He reminded himself that the other Losers had forgotten Stan too, that he wasn't alone in failing his friend in that way. It still hurt, though. In fact, it hurt to have forgotten any of his friends, these people who had meant everything to him at a time in his life when the world had felt so big, and he himself felt so small. He had forgotten Richie. _Richie._ The best friend around which his own life had revolved. He’d never had another friend as good and as special as Richie. In this romantic melancholy at the lost years of his life, Eddie could even admit that Myra was not half the steadfast and loyal companion that Richie had been, and yet Eddie had forgotten him more completely than he forgot the faces of his grandparents, who had died before he started kindergarten. That was shitty.

A cold breeze lifted Eddie's hair, and he decided on a whim to cross to the other side of the street. As he looked left, right, left again, he caught his reflection in the curved side window of a Buick parked against the curb. Eddie took two steps onto the road, then stopped fast and stepped backward onto the sidewalk. Something about that car... He looked into the window again, saw his white face and dark hair bent out of proportion on the tinted glass. A memory was forming.

Eddie gasped, yanking his hands reflexively out of his pockets. The lens! The glasses lens he'd fished frantically out of its tin at two o'clock on a Wednesday morning. He'd seen a face reflected in the cracked surface; a face other than his own. It was Richie! He blinked stupidly at the car. His reflection blinked back. He _hadn't_ forgotten Richie altogether. Something deep in his brain had held the loudmouthed boy with the coke-bottle glasses for two decades, just beyond the reach of his conscious mind, until that one night. Though definitely confused and surprised, Eddie felt kind of pleased at the realisation, like less of a self-centred asshole for forgetting his best friend. He hadn't forgotten him altogether, he'd just... Just what? Put him away? Moved on? Anyway, all of the Losers had forgotten each other, it wasn't just him, and as it turned out his own forgetting might have been less complete than everyone else's: He had remembered (after a fashion) _before_ returning to Derry. Something in his mind had opened up and pushed forth the memory of twelve-year-old Richie, like... Like a premonition, maybe. It _had_ been less than a month between that weird night and Mike's phone call. Maybe he had sensed forces quietly aligning, reached into the dark and pulled out... Richard Tozier.

That was kind of weird though, right? Richie had been his best friend, but given the circumstances surely Bill was the more natural figure for his insomnia-addled mind to conjure, in anticipation of another showdown with the clown. Or even Mike, who at that very moment had probably been wrestling with his impulse to call the Losers home. Why Richie?

Eddie furrowed his brow, casting one last glance at the sedan beside him before stepping onto the road again. As his foot hit the ground, he was shaken out of his reverie by a loud 'pop', like the bursting of a balloon. He looked up, startled, and suddenly remembered the photos Mike had shown them at the Jade of the Orient. He shuddered and hurried on, pushing Richie's nocturnal visit aside for the time being.

** PART 4 **

Eddie gagged as hot, metallic blood filled his mouth, tried to run down his throat. He opened his mouth and let it spill over his lips instead, and it spattered down the front of one of the precious few shirts he had brought to Derry. _God dammit._ He wasn't really hurting yet, braced by the shock of adrenaline still coursing through his body, pumping his heart–and all that blood–fast and hard. At the same time, a curious sort of calm had stolen over him, that primordial protective instinct that took over in a crisis. Beverley's pale face filled his vision.

"Is it bad?" He heard himself say, as fresh blood trickled down his chin.

She raised a hand to his face and, wide-eyed, gently pressed the edges of the wound Bowers had given him together, considering its width.

"Well it's definitely not great," she reported, frowning at his cheek. She sounded shaken up and concerned, but clear-headed. She frowned some more. "It's only about a half-inch across, but obviously it's gone all the way through, so you'll need stitches. Show me your tongue."

Eddie opened his mouth wide. "Ahhhhh," he intoned, sticking out his tongue like a child visiting the doctor, as dark blood ran in rivulets from the corners of his lips. It was slowing down already. Bev giggled a little at his infantile display. Eddie wasn't sure if he'd done it on purpose or not, but her giggles made him feel a little lighter. Head tilted back, he watched her fish around in her pocket and pull out a tissue, raising it towards Eddie's face. He recoiled, casting her a reproachful look.

"It's clean!" She protested, rolling her eyes a little. Hesitantly, Eddie stuck his tongue back out, still eyeing Bev suspiciously. She gently blotted at the blood on his tongue, narrowing her eyes.

"He's nicked your tongue," she observed. "It's not too bad, but it seems to be where a lot of the blood is coming from. Take this-" she produced another tissue from her pocket. The woman was a human tissue-box. "-and hold it on your face. We'll take you to the hospital."

Eddie took the tissue, considering the proposition for a moment. Did he really want to wait in the emergency room for six hours to get a couple of stitches? Maybe he did... There was a certain appeal to sitting in the cool, antiseptic air, flipping through a magazine and waiting out the clown-apocalypse. He could get his stitches and mosey back to the Town House... And probably find all of his friends disembowelled in the lobby. Better not.

"I don't think I wanna do that."

Bev stared at him, shocked. "What? How can you not want to do that?" It was definitely off-brand for Eddie Kaspbrak to deny himself proper medical attention.

"No, I don't want to go to the hospital. My first-aid kit is in the car, I can clean myself up and put on some steri-strips."

Bev eyed him with a mixture of suspicion and alarm. "Are you sure?"

"Yep... I think so... Yep."

"Okay then, but I'll do it. Where are your keys?"

"In my room, bedside table." As he spoke, large drops of blood appeared on Eddie's bottom lip and rolled down his cheek, but the flow was definitely slowing, aided by the return of his heartbeat to something close to normal.

Bev nodded and took the stairs two-at-a-time, turning the corner into his room. Eddie heard her converse very briefly with Ben before reappearing, keys in hand. Ben was two steps behind her, and he sat with Eddie while Beverly dashed outside, filling him in on Bowers' movements _post-window_ whilst taking in his face and bloody shirt. Bev returned quickly with the first-aid kit. She and Eddie retreated to his blood-spattered bathroom and closed the door, Ben returning to his own room to call Bill.

"Sit down on the edge of the tub," Bev instructed, as she closed the lid on the toilet and placed the black canvas bag on top. "Jesus!" She exclaimed as she unzipped the kit. "You've got a whole pharmacy in here!"

"Yep." Eddie replied, a little tersely. His cheek was starting to throb a little.

Bev looked at his face. "Oh, sorry," she murmured, pushing her disquiet to the side for the time being and digging through the bag's contents. Quickly she located some alcohol wipes, steri-strips, paper tape, and a square of non-stick bandage in a sterile package. She placed one of the room's handtowels in the sink and laid her equipment on top.

"There should be some codeine and paracetamol in there too, I'll take those first," Eddie said. Truth be told, there were a few compounds decidedly stronger than codeine buried amongst the aspirin and Band-Aids... But he was saving those.

Bev rummaged through the bag, picking out boxes and squinting at their labels. Finally, she took two packages and handed them to Eddie. He popped four pills out into his palm, swallowing them dry before Bev even finished filling a glass of water. It hurt his tongue a little to swallow the pills, but it actually wasn't that bad. Eddie's platelets, kept plentiful and vigorous by his careful nutritional regimen, were doing an excellent job of sealing the cut. As long as he kept the outside clean and didn't do anything stupid to open it back up, he'd be fine. It would hurt a lot later, when the inflammation really got going, but hopefully he could stay on top of it with painkillers. _And_ , he comforted himself, _I have a little something extra if I need it._

"Alright," he said, as much to himself as to Doctor Beverley. "Let's do it."

She nodded and got to work. It was slow going; she was nervous and taking great care to be gentle with Eddie's poor face. First, she ripped open an alcohol wipe and cleaned the blood from the far edges of Eddie's cheek, working carefully towards the centre. She passed a second wipe to Eddie, so that he could remove the dried blood from around his mouth and under his chin, whilst she gingerly worked over the wound itself. A tiny droplet of blood worked its way out of the cut, and Eddie hissed a little at the alcohol seeping into the minute opening she had created.

"Sorry Eddie, you're doing great."

He laughed mildly. "It's okay, so are you."

When Eddie's face was clean of blood, Beverly carefully peeled a steri-strip from its backing, sticking it to Eddie's cheek and drawing in firmly across the cut. She followed with two more.

***

Richie arrived back at the Town House to find it eerily quiet and appearing empty. He cast his eyes around the lobby and up onto the staircase; no one to be seen. Tension melted from his shoulders as he exhaled in relief. No one had seen him ( _run_ ) leave, and maybe they didn't need to know. He hadn't gotten further than the synagogue and anyway, he was here now. As he started towards the stairs, a noise behind Richie made him jump. He whirled around, needles of terror rushing up his spine, but it was only Ben coming through the front door.

"Haystack! Jesus Christ." Richie shook his head, clutching dramatically at his chest. Then, "Where the fuck is everybody?"

"I don't know where Bill is, I've been trying to call him but the cell service is lousy–I was just down the side of the House trying to get bars–and even when it goes through he isn't picking up." Ben was polite enough not to ask why Richie, who at their last meeting had been emphatic about sticking around, now seemed to be sneaking into the building. He continued: "Bev and Eddie should be in Eddie's room. Bowers was here–remember Henry Bowers, that psychotic hillbilly who tried to kill us all the time? Well he was in Eddie's room, he stabbed him in the face and-"

"WHAT?!" Richie was bug-eyed, couldn't believe what he'd heard.

"Yeah–Eddie's okay. Bowers escaped out the window-"

Richie was at the base of the staircase; a third of the way up to Eddie's room; halfway. He saw blood smeared on the peeling wallpaper, smalls drops drying on one, two, three of the stairs; didn't stop. By the time he reached the landing he was panting, but didn't hesitate before stepping through Eddie's open doorway. Crossing the room in three strides, he opened the en suite door without knocking and stood wide-eyed on the threshold, chest heaving.

Eddie was sitting on the bathtub, Bev bent over with both hands working on the cheek Richie couldn't see. They were both peering at Richie framed in the doorway, Bev's hair hanging across her face as she turned towards him, Eddie's eyes rolling to the right while he tried not to move his head. For a moment they all just looked at each other.

"Hi Richie," Eddie offered casually, a small smirk lifting the corner of his mouth as Beverley returned to her work. "How's it hanging?"

Richie only stared. Eddie considered how he must look, blood soaking the neck of his shirt, caked in the stubble of his neck. He grinned. "You should see the other guy."

Bev smiled at Eddie's joke and, having finished applying the final steri-strip, turned her attention back towards Richie, who was still standing silent in the doorway with his mouth hanging open. Eddie turned his head to show his wounded cheek now all sealed up, show that it was okay. Seeing this, Richie closed his mouth, and then looked as though he wanted to say something. Instead he only swallowed, Adam's apple darting painfully in his throat.

 _Trashmouth, speechless?_ Bev followed his gaze, trained not on Eddie's swollen cheek, but his eyes. She frowned, looked back at Richie. He swallowed again. Bev's brain turned over, caught, and her bemusement melted into total clarity along with a fresh batch of memories from their childhood. She cleared her throat loudly and stood up; Richie jumped as if he'd forgotten she was there.

"Good, I'm glad you're here Richie. I need to go check on Ben." Eddie turned to look at her, cocking an eyebrow in surprise. "Eddie's face is going to heal up fine. I've closed it up, he just needs a bandage over the top." She took the bandage and tape from the sink, pressed them into Richie's chest. "Do you think you can do that?"

He nodded dumbly and grabbed the packages.

"Good, thanks Richie." She crinkled her eyes warmly, holding his gaze for the length of three heartbeats. Then she stepped around him, closed the door and was gone.

"Thanks Bev!" called Eddie, mild perplexity still written on his face. He looked at Richie who swallowed again, then cleared his throat.

"How- how are you doing?" Richie asked, still standing awkwardly in front of the closed door.

"Well, for a guy who just got stabbed in the face, I suppose I'm pretty okay." A third smile. Richie still didn't seem to be buying it. "Really!" He spread his arms, palms open in a gesture of sincerity. "I mean, it's gonna hurt like a motherfucker later, and I'm not loving the fact that a second crazy asshole is out to kill us, but it really could have been a lot worse." He paused a moment, eyeing the bandage in Richie's hands. "I'd love to get this bandaged up so I can stop sitting on the tub though; I can feel it giving me haemorrhoids."

Richie seemed to jolt into awareness of the items in his hands. "Ah yeah, shit... Sorry." He snorted a delayed little laugh at Eddie's joke. "I'll fix your face up pretty, but you're on your own with the piles, my friend. Or maybe Bev can tag back in."

Now that Richie was talking again, Eddie relaxed a little. There was something about silence in Richie Tozier that always made him uneasy; it was a rare and disconcerting event.

Richie regarded the items in his hands, and then passed them to Eddie. "Hold these a second." He took the towel out of the sink and hung it on the rack alongside. Pulling up his sleeves, Richie lathered his hands carefully with soap and washed them under the hot faucet, before drying them carefully on the towel. Eddie looked on in amazement.

"Rich, I don't think I have ever seen you wash your hands before. Like, _ever._ "

Richie laughed, "I always scrub up before surgery". He affected a deep, stern voice. "Now, Mr. Kaspbrak, I trust your insurance is up-to-date? We had to sell the last patient who defaulted on their bill to a brothel in Uzbekistan, just to break even. I'd hate to see that happen to you, my lad. They'd like you, such a pretty thing."

Eddie chuckled a little, rolling his eyes. "Shut the fuck up and fix my face, before I bleed on you."

Richie gave a dramatic shudder. "Yeesh, okay! I hate to think what exotic diseases I'd catch from such a _feelthy peeg_ as yourself."

He knelt down next to the tub and reached for the bandage in Eddie's lap. Eddie grabbed for the bandage, meaning to hand it over, and for a moment Richie's hand closed over his own. It was warm, and large enough to envelop Eddie's almost entirely. Somewhere in Eddie's mind a cog, cobwebbed and long rusted from disuse, squealed to life. His eyes jumped towards Richie's at the same time that his friend jerked his hand back. Richie emitted a strained little laugh and looked away, making a noisy business of opening the sterile packet.

"Okay, just turn your head away a little."

Eddie turned his head forty degrees to the right, looking towards the opposite wall but not really seeing it. Something was pulling hard at his mind. It was like the confusing meld of sense and recollection, that sometimes happens when a certain smell triggers some long-forgotten memory that you can't quite bring into focus.

"Pass me the tape."

He felt Richie's hand on his face, could half-see his brow creased in concentration as he very gently placed the bandage over the gash in Eddie's cheek, attaching it at the top with a piece of tape. He turned to look at Richie as he bowed his head to tear off another piece of tape, looked away as Richie raised his hands back to Eddie's face. Eddie's consciousness was suffused with a dreamlike quality, the edges softening and blurring. Time seemed to become viscous, flowing by at the pace of warm tar. Was he going into shock or something? He had heard of tiny pieces of bone making their way into people's hearts after an injury and killing them. _But this is my brain going wrong_ , he reminded himself, _not my heart_. Also, he hadn't broken a bone. These facts flowed sluggishly across the floor of Eddie's mind. _What a strange thought to have had._ Maybe it _was_ shock. Suddenly a vivid memory leapt out of the blur, of looking down at a cast on his arm and worrying about bone fragments in his heart.

Richie was sticking a second piece of tape to the bandage. Eddie's eyes fluttered closed involuntarily at the touch of a thumb above his jawbone. _What was that?_ He saw the cast again, saw himself at thirteen working himself into a lather of anxiety about bone fragments. The young self in his mind looked left, saw thirteen-year old Richie Tozier, just as he had appeared in grown-up Eddie's kitchen in the middle of the night. Young Richie was looking at him with the same expression of brow-knitted concern he had just seen on adult Richie, telling him to breathe, “ _just breathe,”_ it would be okay. “ _Like me,”_ he said, demonstrating a slow and smooth in-and-out breath for Eddie to mimic. They breathed together, Eddie's chest hitching at first and then slowly, slowly slipping into rhythm with his friend's.

A third piece of tape now, grown-up Richie's fingertips brushing his ear. Eddie's eyes were still closed, but young Richie was looking into them. “ _Good_ ,” he said. “ _Good job Eds. You're okay”._ Young Eddie met his gaze. _I love you, Richie,_ he thought, hoping against hope that if he thought it hard enough and loud enough, Richie would hear it without him having to say it.

_I love you._

The final piece of tape. "There you go Eds. You look like a hot mess but at least you won't bleed on anyone."

Eddie's eyes snapped open. The languid dreaminess of his mind had dissipated in an instant, replaced with hard-edged clarity. He looked at Richie, wide-eyed. Richie drew back, still kneeling, and stared concernedly into Eddie's face.

"What? Eddie- are you okay?"

The quiet and lonely dissatisfaction of Eddie's entire adult life had finally taken shape: The shape of the boy who had come to him in his desperate sleeplessness, six weeks previous. Here was the missing piece that had eluded him for years; rapped quietly at his window on miserable late-night drives; slipped coldly into the space between his own skin and the other naked body in his bed. It was Richie. And here he was, warm and substantial and close enough to touch.

_Close enough to touch._

Eddie blinked stupidly, saying nothing, and Richie became more concerned. He flinched as Eddie jerked his hands reflexively forward, into the space between them. Eddie seemed to have surprised himself as well; he regarded his hands, hanging in mid-air like those of a marionette. Apparently satisfied with whatever he had learned, Eddie motioned an almost-imperceptible little nod, eyes flicking back up to meet Richie's own. Then, in one smooth motion, Eddie thrust his hands forward, placing them firmly onto the sharp contours of Richie's jaw and leant in, kissing him on the mouth.

Richie had been worried that Eddie might be having some kind of dissociative episode in the aftermath of the attack, and was watching closely for anything that might suggest a real problem. Whatever he had expected to happen next, it wasn't this. Jerking reflexively backwards with a small gasp of surprise, he scanned Eddie's face. Eddie appeared lucid, and horrified.

"Richie, I'm sorry, I didn't-"

Richie cut him off with a delayed mirror of Eddie's gesture, pulling Eddie’s face downward onto his own. A sharp intake of air through Eddie's nose signalled his own turn at surprise, quickly forgotten as he grabbed at the back of Richie's neck and crushed their mouths together in a press of lips and teeth. There were no thoughts then, only urgency and the loudness of heavy breathing. For a second Eddie was vaguely aware of the pressure on his mouth contorting his cheek, sending a dull flash of pain across the wound. The sensation fell quickly away, consumed by a desire that blotted out all else.

The two men pulled each other up to standing, never once breaking the contact between their hungry, devouring mouths. They stood there next to the jagged glass of the broken window, hands moving through hair, across backs, grasping momentarily at a hip. Eddie's right hand ran along Richie's belt above the tag of his jeans, found a flash of skin beneath his untucked shirt. Richie inhaled sharply at the contact, opened his eyes momentarily before wrapping an arm supportively around Eddie's back and pressing him three steps backward, to lay against the bathroom door. For the first time their lips came apart, as Richie lowered his mouth to suck hungrily at Eddie's neck. A soft moan of response rose from Eddie's throat as he worked his hand higher up Richie's back, moving ceaselessly beneath the shirt. The sound went through Richie like a taser, electricity volting through his torso and settling in a place three inches below his navel. The sensation drew a response in kind, Richie rumbling a strained bass note into the side of Eddie's neck. With two deft flicks of his right hand–this was hardly his first rodeo–Richie undid the buttons on Eddie's shirt, moving his head down to kiss and nip at the skin below his clavicle. Still working along his open collar, Richie lowered a hand towards Eddie's pelvis and drew it back up beneath the rough weave of his blue shirt, palm stroking firmly across the flat expanse of torso. Eddie gasped louder this time, fingers bending compulsively, nails biting gentle tracks parallel to Richie's spine. This sharpening of touch put an arch into Richie's back, and his mouth drew away from Eddie's collarbones to gasp a warm sigh across his neck.

Mouth against mouth now, bodies pressing hard together. A rigid lump, firm against Eddie's belly stopped him sharp for a moment. It was a novel sensation and a vivid reminder that this was wholly unexplored territory. A small and frightened protest fluttered briefly in a corner of Eddie's mind, but was quickly silenced by the gentle bite of Richie's teeth into his bottom lip. As if in defiance of his moment's wavering, Eddie drew his hand out from Richie's shirt and gripped the unfastened zipper tracks of his jacket, drawing it open and starting to work it back over Richie's square shoulders. At this bold gesture Richie looked questioningly into Eddie's face and, seeing no trepidation there, shifted to ease the jacket's movement down his arms and onto the floor. With this act of undressing, a second threshold had been crossed, altering the vibrations of the room and kicking Richie up a gear. He grabbed at Eddie's coat, fingers that had moved so smoothly over his buttons now trembling across the synthetic material. Eddie pressed forward slightly and took over removal of the jacket. The second the maroon fabric hit the floor Richie's hands were busy again, drawing the hem of Eddie's polo shirt up and over his head in one smooth motion. As both of their arms returned to their sides, Richie eyed Eddie's torso lasciviously. He bent quickly downward, almost to kneeling, and drew his mouth across the bare stomach in a ravenous flurry of kissing and sucking and biting. There was nothing soft about Eddie's moans of appreciation this time, and Richie laughed in spite of himself, whispering a half-hearted "shhhh" as he worked his way upward.

Now it was Eddie's turn to undress his partner, or try to; Richie's height made it difficult for Eddie to pull his shirt over his head. Richie had to bend at the waist, and Eddie laughed quietly at their plight as he drew the bottom hem upwards and over. Richie was laughing too as he smoothed his dark hair, tousled by the shirt, out of his face. Their smiles faded quickly as they regarded each other's bare-chested forms, replaced again by serious, animal lust. Richie crossed back towards Eddie, pinning him against the door to enjoy the unencumbered warmth of skin against skin. Their height difference was more evident than ever, as Richie tilted his head downwards to level his mouth with Eddie's ear. His warm breath sent goose bumps fanning across Eddie's neck and shoulders.

A squeaking noise intruded on Eddie's pleasure, as Richie reached down to turn the door handle at Eddie's left hip. He swung the door backwards and open, slow enough for Eddie to maintain his balance. A shared glance and a small gesture of Richie's head told Eddie what he meant: The bed. Obligingly, Eddie stepped backwards and turned around, crossing the short distance to the mattress swathed in an ugly, paisley bedspread. Richie followed close behind, kicking off one shoe, then the other. Eddie's shoes sat neatly by the door, where he had placed them before his little visit from Bowers.

Eddie sat down on the mattress, facing Richie as he approached. Working to quiet the words in his head, something about _out of your depth_ , he stared up at the man who was regarding his seated form with a half-smile. He cocked an eyebrow at Eddie. Barely two words had been spoken since Eddie first took Richie's face in his hands; indeed, it had been less than ten minutes since Richie had finished bandaging his face. Eddie knew or felt that to talk too much would be to threaten the fragile thread drawing them together through this crazy, unexpected, _completely necessary_ circumstance, and he suspected that Richie felt it too. He responded to Richie's unspoken question with another small nod. A third threshold. Richie's smile broadened, and he moved quickly towards Eddie, placing one large hand on his chest to guide him gently backward onto the pillows. He supported his own substantial frame with hands planted either side of Eddie's shoulders, lowering his body and face to enjoy that divine skin warmth once more. Things were accelerating now, the two men breathing hard as the urgency of their kisses further intensified. Eddie's hands roamed Richie's back, mapping its topography in long, irregular strokes. Then, as Richie nipped once more into the soft pink of his friend's mouth, those same hands moved uncontrolledly to grip Richie’s ass firmly and drive their erections against one another. The crown of Eddie's head pressed hard into the feather pillow and he closed his eyes tight, as a wave of pleasure cascaded up his body. Richie pressed his mouth desperately onto Eddie's, dampening a loud moan; there was only thin drywall separating them from the Town House's winding staircase.

Panting now, Richie raised himself on his forearms and began to work hot, wet kisses across Eddie's chest and down his stomach. Eddie knew what was coming and welcomed it, the trepidatious voice thoroughly extinguished from his head. He threaded his hands into Richie's dark hair, watched as he worked slowly, torturously, down his abdomen.

Something bright caught Eddie's eye as Richie drew level with his naval. His wedding ring. For a moment Eddie almost laughed. If Myra knew he was doing this instead of getting proper medical care for the wound in his face, _through_ his face, she would have a stroke. She would be so worried for him; was always worried for him, ever vigilant to protect her Eddie Bear. Hot breath below his bellybutton now, as his mind coiled around this vision of his wife, idly at first and then tightening like a boa constrictor.

"Myra."

Richie looked up. "What was that?"

" _Myra!_ " Eddie's mind recoiled, a wave of black, jagged realisation tumbling him ashore. "Myra, my wife... Oh fuck. We have to stop."

A rigid tension had possessed Richie's body. He didn't move, only blinked, not daring to comprehend. "What?"

Eddie's shoulders worked as he drew himself up the bed, away from Richie, who was just beginning to grasp this inversion of reality.

"Are you fucking serious right now?" asked Richie with no anger yet, only a subtle shift into sober enquiry. He leaned over onto one arm, allowing Eddie to swing his legs from underneath him and over the edge of the bed where he sat, straight-backed.

"Yes, I'm serious, Richie. I'm _married_." Eddie pressed a hand to the bone above his temple and scrunched his eyes shut. How had he forgotten? Myra had almost certainly not stopped worrying about him for a single second since he had walked out the door, and here he was forgetting their _marriage vows_ less than three days later. He saw her standing in the doorway of their home, crying in fear and confusion as Eddie got into the cab that was the beginning of his return to Derry. She was probably thinking about her husband and praying for his safe return at _this very instant_. Eddie felt sick.

Richie felt sicker. The bedframe squeaked under his shifting weight as he, too moved to sit on the edge of the bed. The flare of paralysing numbness that had possessed him when Eddie invoked his wife's name was rapidly subsiding. Intensifying into its place was a devastation so pure and complete that it was breathtaking.

He looked at Eddie's motionless figure and spoke in a voice, low and brutally controlled. "How are you only now realising this?"

Eddie opened his eyes, turning to meet the other's. "Richie, I'm so sorry. I... Got carried away-"

An icy knife slipped between Richie's ribs, impaling his heart. This could not be happening. Could _not_. And yet he had heard the words, clear as day. Sighing defeatedly, Richie levered forward to rest his elbows on his thighs, head dropping into his hands with his palms over his eyes. Watching his hunched figure, Eddie wanted to cry. In the space of fifteen minutes he had managed to betray his wife and ( _destroy_ ) hurt his best friend. _Best friend._ He flinched internally at the words, knew they were woefully insubstantial but was at a loss for something more accurate. Best friends didn't do what they just did, almost did. The thing inside him that wanted Richie, wanted to hold and kiss and devour, still had not fully subsided. It paced back and forth within him like a restless tiger, no longer roaring but definitely still growling. But he couldn't feed it–he was a married man, had made a vow to the woman who loved him. She loved him so much that her life almost revolved around him, around caring for and protecting him from pain and sickness and bad choices. To some, her love might seem towering, possessive, entitled... Smothering. But she knew Eddie wasn't like other men; he was delicate, and he needed a woman's love to keep him safe from the world and sometimes, from himself. By this metric, Myra loved him more than anybody but his mother ever had, and he had promised to endure that love ' _til death do we part_. He wanted Richie like he had never wanted Myra, never wanted anyone. But he was married. _Married._ The word slipped from his mouth, as if to convince himself of its importance.

"I'm _married._ "

"Oh, shit Eds, are you fucking _married_?!" Richie spat sarcastically from beneath his hands. "I wish you'd said something." He didn't mean to, didn't want to be spiteful in his pain. He knew that Eddie was completely entitled to change his mind and had technically _done the right thing_ , and that he himself was no hero for being seconds from sucking the dick of a married man. But the pressure inside his head was growing unbearable, and flares of fresh torment exploded inside him each time Eddie brought up his wife, the fucking reason why Richie would never have the only thing he ever really wanted. Ever really _needed_. He imagined her, shuffling stupidly around their marital nest somewhere in New York, idly folding her husband's sweaters without knowing or giving a single flying fuck that she was keeping Richie's whole fucking reason for being away from him. Taking Eddie for granted and complaining about him to her friends. Richie could have strangled the life out of her there and then, given half a chance. It was a crude and ugly thought, but it was honest.

Richie's mind looped back. _He would never have the only thing he really wanted. The only_ one _he really wanted._ He had a sudden, vivid memory of watching Eddie through a jagged hole in his comic book, feeling the warm entanglement of their legs and wishing he could drop the artifice and grab him, hold him and kiss him right there in the clubhouse, and the hateful knowledge that it could not be so. For almost thirty years he had been haunted by his love for Eddie. For twenty of them his need had retreated to the back of his mind, coiled like a sleeping dragon, but always it had been there. Today, the planets had almost aligned, had almost dropped the final piece into the puzzle of his existence, and now he would have to live the rest of his life with that memory of almost-happiness. He suddenly could not be in this room anymore. Without looking at Eddie, he rose from the bed, crossing to the bathroom and picking up his shirt. With his back to the door, he slid the shirt on over his head and picked up his jacket, throwing it quickly over the top. He turned and, still avoiding eye contact, stamped his feet quickly into his shoes, which were laying close to Eddie's feet. All the while, Eddie watched his progress through wide, glassy eyes, saying nothing. As Richie, now fully dressed, moved toward the bedroom door Eddie started to speak, unsure of what he even meant to say.

"Richie, I-"

Richie did not stop. He could not stop. Wordlessly, and without looking back, he stepped through the door and closed it behind him. Eddie heard him stride across the landing. Silence fell for a short moment, followed by two loud bangs, and the sound of something hard crashing to the lobby floor.

***

Richie was ashamed of himself, the second the heavy length of wood hit the ground. It had never been in his nature to lash out in anger or react with violence, but his pain in that moment was so great, so consuming that it erupted out of him, uncontrolled. There was no intention to his actions; only a surge of emotion through his body that propelled his leg to kick once, twice, at one of the turned wooden balustrades running along the staircase. The sound of it hitting the floor shook him immediately from the haze of furious self-pity. He rushed to the handrail, looking over and down onto the parquetry. The lobby was vacant of people, thank God. Thank _Christ_. _He could have killed someone._ Richie's shame doubled as he looked across the open atrium and saw Ben and Bev standing in Ben's doorway, staring open-mouthed at Richie in disbelief of his childish, frankly dangerous outburst. The distraction did not hold Richie for long, however, and the fog curled darkly back into his mind. Breaking eye contact with Bev, he resumed his ascent, marching with head bowed towards his room. Unseen by Richie, Ben started towards him and looked as if he would say something. Before he could form words however, Bev pressed gently on his shoulder to halt his progress, shaking her head once, and the sound died in his throat.

Richie was mindful not to slam his door, wary of the impression his little macho display had left on his friends, and fearing a little to lose control again. He struggled to know what to do with himself. The idea of taking a shower occurred briefly. Then he sat on his bed, head in hands like he had next to Eddie only moments before. He stood up abruptly, paced the length of his room four times before making as if to open the door, but stopping short. Then he sat again, this time on the low table intended to hold a suitcase, and fisted a hand into his hair, squeezing until the follicles sang. Grounded a little by the brief physical pain, he drew three deep breaths, ending the last with a long exhale through pursed lips. What to do? He was keenly aware that the others were close by, felt hemmed in by their presence and the fact that they could hear any loud or even moderately loud noises that might come from his room. Ben might rap on his door at any minute to check on him, or to demand an explanation for the flagrant property damage he'd just committed. And–he shrivelled at the very thought–Eddie could be sticking his head cautiously around his own doorframe at this very moment. It was all too much. He had to get out.

Within seconds, Richie was descending the fire escape for the second time that day. His bags were still in the car, where he had left them to hide how close he'd come to skipping town, should anyone have caught him sneaking back into the Town House. Well, this time it looked like he'd be succeeding.

***

Eddie's face was really throbbing now. The passing of his lust, and the slowly unravelling intensity of his shock and self-loathing had created a vacuum, now filling with the thrum of his pulse in his punctured cheek. His tongue ached as well, a constant reminder of what the wounded muscle had been used for, mere minutes ago. Beverley had surmised some of what had happened since she left him in the bathroom with Richie, though let on very little. She rapped softly at his door.

"Are you okay?"

Eddie looked over at her from his prone position on the bed.

"Yeah..." He looked into Bev's eyes, saw that she was not completely ignorant of what had occurred. "Well, no. Not really."

She crossed the room in light steps, perched softly on the bed next to Eddie's feet. "Do you want to talk about it?"

Eddie considered for a moment. He had moved through the shock, both of the intensity of his fifteen minutes with Richie, and of the way his memory of Myra had come crashing into the room like the Kool-Aid Man, while his best friend worked determinedly towards his inseam. What was left was a quieter but very potent mix of depression, shame, and something very close to grief. He could really use a friend right now, and he didn't think Bev would judge him harshly for the double-betrayal he had just metered out. Still, he felt four decades of practice in swallowing inconvenient truths stiffen his jaw. He shook his head.

Bev looked at him a long moment, twisting the corner of her mouth in a gesture of concern before nodding _okay then_ and rising from the bed, patting Eddie on the shin as she turned towards the door. Her hand was on the ornate brass handle, beginning to turn when-

"Hey Bev?"

She looked back. Eddie's throat was working as he leaned up on the lumpy cushions, blinking rapidly. "Umm..."

Eddie told her everything. He told her about what had happened in the bathroom and on the bed, sparing some more intimate details for Richie's privacy alone. He told her about the empty little cold spot he'd been carrying all his life, never able to fill or even understand it. About the interminable _sameness_ of his years with Myra, _same_ in the sense that nothing ever seemed to happen, and _same_ in the sense that, although his mother had died five years ago, he still lived under the roof of a _mommy_ who hid him away from the big, bad world. He described the flash of rage that filled his heart in the first split-second he had remembered his obligations to his wife, and the horrible guilt that had followed and cornered him into forsaking Richie. Eddie told Bev about things he himself had only just remembered, was remembering for the first time even as he told spoke them to life: About the indefinable wanting of his childhood that had frightened him so, and the horrible moment of clarity that had ruined his fourteenth birthday. Biting down the stirrings of adolescent sexual energy for as long as he could, pretending he could not remember his dreams when he woke sticky in the morning. The part of him that had died the day Maggie and Wentworth packed up all their shit and fucked off to Bloomington, taking Richie with them.

Eddie had not been this honest with another living person, including himself, in his entire life.

Throughout his high-speed monologue, Bev sat mostly in silence, her face responding in perfect empathy with the emotional cadence of his revelations. Although he never faltered in the telling, it occurred to Eddie several times whilst observing Bev's ceaseless interest, and refusal to interrupt, that he had forgotten what it was like for someone to really _listen_ to him. It was nice.

The diminishing rate of his speech signalled to Eddie that he was running out of things to say, his breathless flight-of-ideas drawing to a close. He felt cleansed and empty, as well as very tired, though he knew that when he finished it would be time for Bev’s response to his unfettered confessions. He was afraid of what she would say and tried half-heartedly to talk on, to push back the moment of reckoning. Quickly though, he realised it was a pointless endeavour; his brain seemed exhausted of words. Eddie drew a final, deep breath as if to plunge into another sentence, and instead merely took another draw from his inhaler (which had received a proper workout since Richie left the room) and fell silent.

Bev watched him expectantly for a long moment, before realising in mild surprise that he was finished. She cleared her throat and looked thoughtful for a second, settled on the only thing she could think to say.

"Wow."

Eddie's nervous tension was transmuted into a shock of laughter at her insubstantial-yet-perfect response, at the absurdity of it all. Bev giggled like a schoolgirl, the break in tension seeming to thin the air and spin both of their heads for a second. Regaining her composure, she ran her fingers through her hair and looked meaningfully at Eddie.

"Fuck, dude. I... That's a lot."

Eddie sighed long and hard. "I know." He threw his body backwards onto the bed, like a grumpy child. "So, what do I do?"

Her expression became serious, almost challenging. "About what exactly? About the woman you wish you'd never married, or the man you wish you had?".

Eddie remembered Bev as being blunt, but still wasn't quite ready for the directness of that statement. He stared at her, brow furrowed, and opened his mouth to explain why it _wasn't that easy_ or that she _didn't really get it._ Nothing came out. All he could do was sit in stunned silence as Bev cocked an eyebrow, daring him to defy her logic. Finally, he closed his mouth, admitting defeat. Bev wrestled with the look of amusement trying to overtake her face, which softened into a sort of no-nonsense concern when she felt Eddie's helplessness.

"Listen Eddie, I'm hardly in a position to give relationship advice," she continued through Eddie's questioning glance; now was not the time for a discussion about the _wonderful_ Tom Rogan. "But I wonder what exactly it is that makes you feel you have to stay with Myra, just because you married her." Bev noted the irony, pinned it for later. "I know you're a loyal person–it's one of the things we all love about you–and I know that you care about her. But you get one life, Eddie." She looked directly into his eyes, raising her index finger into the air. "One. And–let's just assume for the moment that we're all getting out of here–" she suppressed a shudder at the reminder of their plight, "you need to decide what you want to do with the rest of yours."

They gazed seriously at each other for a few seconds, and then Eddie nodded. Bev stared a moment longer and then, satisfied that he had really heard her, nodded herself.

"Okay. You okay?" Another nod from Eddie. "Okay. I'm going to see if Ben has got hold of the others. I'm not liking this radio silence, we might need to get out of here soon, alright?" She squeezed Eddie's shoulder, and left him.

Eddie could cheerfully have drawn back the covers and slept until the following morning. The pain in his cheek had subsided to a dull ache, and the opening of his emotional floodgates had left him feeling hollow and exhausted. Bev was right, he knew, but he was devoid of the mental and physical energy to pull apart the full implications of her words or decide what to do about it, assuming there was anything he _could_ do. She was also right about needing to pull together and find the others, and Eddie figured she would be barging back through his door any minute with urgent instructions. He would just wait for her here, reclining on the lumpy mattress and conserving his energy-

Eddie was asleep within seconds.

***

The leather steering wheel squeaked beneath Richie's tight grip. He turned his hands forwards and back, forwards and back, twisting the skin of the wheel like a motorbike throttle. The Mustang idled restlessly on a grassy stretch of verge along Route 7, the engine of the ostentatious vehicle growling noisily beneath the hood. It was making it hard for Richie to think, so he shut it off, which instead tipped him into an oppressive silence; the old road out of Derry was evidently little used these days, and the sound of the over-powered car seemed to have scared away any wildlife that might sing or growl. He gazed at the sign, about twenty feet in front of him:

_Now Leaving Derry_

_Come Back Soon!_

A cheerful illustration of Memorial Park and the Derry Standpipe formed the backdrop of the sign, faded colours peeling at the edges. Richie stared at the black letters, at a loss for how to proceed. In theory, it was simple: Turn the ignition, plant his foot, and Straight on Until Morning, Derry and all its horrors fading in his dust. Was he really going to do that? He _could_... No one would stop him. He could be eating brunch at The Highlight Room in less than twenty-four hours, listening to Maria talk rapidly through a mouthful of bacon, shades on against the bright California morning. He could practically taste the mimosas. And if he _wasn't_ really going to do that, wasn't going to throw the car keys at the Avis clerk in Bangor and fly-the-fuck-home, well... How could he go back now? He'd been gone for a good little while; there would be no chance of slipping back into the Town House unheeded this time. No sir, if he went back now he'd have to explain himself... Admit that he'd bailed on his friends at least long enough get all the way out past the Bowers' old farm; run at least far enough to stand outside of Derry and piss in. He'd have to look Ben and Bev in the eyes and explain why he'd tried to kick the staircase down, and hope they would see that he hadn't meant to, would never mean to; that his pain had simply demanded expression, had plucked at the nerves of his leg in an impotent struggle for release. Worst of all, he'd have to be in the same room as Eddie. He would have to pretend not to feel the electric current arcing and crackling between them, or the visceral emptiness of his own heart residing in a different body. Richie hit his head gently against the seat and groaned. He longed to return to the blessed hours during which crawling through sewers towards almost-certain death seemed like the hardest part of his homecoming.

A bright sound interrupted Richie's anguish. A small, fat bird had perched on the _Derry_ sign, and was tweeting away at a complex little melody. What kind of bird it was, Richie couldn't even venture a guess. He knew almost nothing about birds, only that the ones that nested in palm trees in the Hills and crapped on luxury cars were Hooded Orioles. He was able to remember this because it sounded vaguely like _areola_ , and because he enjoyed the sight of rich, old, white guys returning to their Jags to find them covered in shit. It was Stan who knew about birds. Knew more about birds than Richie would probably ever know about anything. He could almost see him now, small and neat in his miniature-adult's outfit, crouching in the trees that bordered the road and holding his binoculars up to get a closer look at the bird. Richie chuckled lightly. Such a weird kid, was Stan. Weird and wonderful. And brave. Stan had been probably the most disturbed of all of them by what he saw and experienced that summer. His neat, orderly world was utterly incompatible with the one in which dead boys could walk and talk, and werewolves were real. It had really fucked him up there for a minute, and yet he went with them into the sewers. He fought the clown. Stan was the very best, and it hurt badly that Richie would never get to see him again.

 _Or say goodbye_.

The little bird took off with a start, and Richie was jerked back into reality. He sighed, no longer under any illusion about what had to happen. The engine rumbled to life with a turn of the key and, shaking his head in tired disbelief of the decision he had made, Richie turned a smooth 'U' and accelerated back towards Witcham Street and the Town House, back into the arms of the worst place on Earth.

***

It was still awkward. Even in the dim light of the library, surrounded by their friends and with senses accosted by the scent of old books, vomit, and the sickly metallic tang of fresh blood, the memory of their last meeting was tenaciously front-of-mind. After a brief forgetting during which Eddie took in the dead form of his assaulter, heard Richie's admission of what was technically–though defensive and frankly ( _welcome_ ) justified–murder, a flash of eye-contact was enough to conjure the image of Richie looking up at him from between his legs, with startling clarity.

Richie saw the colour rise in Eddie's cheeks as they locked eyes and was reminded, with equal vividness, of the same flush spreading across his neck and chest in the blessed moments before the _unpleasantness_. The two men looked quickly away as if caught out, before tentatively returning their eyelines to one another. Thankfully, their awkward behaviour went completely unnoticed; Ben, Mike, and Beverley were justifiably occupied by the gruesome scene before them, and their concerns for Bill's whereabouts.

Richie felt like an asshole for the way he'd reacted to Eddie's rejection, and if anything his disgust at his own behaviour had only intensified in the past ten minutes; ending a life had a funny way of putting things into perspective. The mental space provided by his little drive had also let in the horrible realisation that, since Eddie can't have known just what Richie felt for him and what their few minutes in his room had meant, his distress must have looked like a grown-up tantrum at being denied sex. The thought sent fresh shame creeping up Richie's throat. He crinkled his forehead and looked beseechingly at Eddie. _I'm sorry._

Eddie turned up the corner of his mouth, knitted his brows and offered a single shake of the head _._ The nonverbal communication that had been such a useful and well-honed skill in their childhood was sharp as ever, and Richie read his meaning: _No, I'm sorry._ Eddie's sense of guilt for his own part in the whole mess was no less pronounced than Richie's. He had started it, and in doing so critically jeopardised the friendship they had only just rediscovered. The fact that Richie was talking, or rather _looking,_ at him at all was a relief beyond measure. Eddie also felt bad for making his relationship with Myra Richie's problem, a dick move in itself; his fidelity was no one's responsibility but his own. 'Sorry' barely touched the sides. Richie responded with an almost-smile of joyless acceptance. _It's okay. It will be okay._

Mike stood up suddenly, his agitation breaking into the two men's silent reconciliation. The whole covert conversation had taken place within seconds.

"No. No no no no no. Just- look, just come here to the library, we can talk about the plan-"

Eddie braced against whatever would happen next. It didn't sound good. He patted his left hip in that automatic self-soothing gesture, practiced over years and hundreds, maybe thousands of little metal canisters of asthma medication. His inhaler was there in his pocket, reassuringly hard and tangible. Its presence grounded him as Mike hung up his phone and looked toward the others.

"He's going to fight it alone".

Richie hung his head; he knew what was coming. It was sewer time.

** Part 5 **

_Darkness beyond measure, beyond comprehension stretched out in front of Richie. Out into infinity. He was cold, but his skin did not pucker into gooseflesh; this cold was inside, not just inside his skin but inside his organs, his blood, his very cells. It was the cold before the universe, the cold of when there was nothing. It felt impossible to Richie that he could still have form and mass, could still be wearing glasses and three-hundred-dollar trainers. Surely, at any moment the molecules of his being would split apart and be scattered throughout the universe, or whatever this terrifying, black vacuum was supposed to be. And he was alone. Utterly, completely-_

"You okay there, Richie?"

Richie jumped like a rat on an electric floor, the nightmarish vision dissolving in an instant. Late-morning sunshine warmed the top of his head, his arms hung loose from his grip on the steering wheel, and Bill was peering down at him from beside the driver's side door. A quick flex-and-release of the muscles in his shoulders helped Richie to reconnect with his body. He was not in the deadlights now. He was on solid ground, safely ensconced within the cabin of a Quality American Vehicle ( _and you may find yourself behind the wheel of a large automobile... This is not my beautiful house! This is not my beautiful wife!)._

"Richie?"

Richie shook his head, working to ground himself again and shake off the weird, dissociated thoughts tumbling through his mind. He gripped the steering wheel, forced himself to focus on present reality. Pennywise was gone, and he was going home. Not running away this time, just... Leaving early.

" _Richie?!"_

"Uh... Yeah. I'm alright, Big Bill. Just... You know. It was intense in there, huh?"

Bill nodded sympathetically. Intense was one word for it.

"It certainly was that." Bill paused for a moment, squinting into Richie's face through the bright morning sun. "Are you sure you should be driving right now, though? Surely, we all need to rest. You could stay another day; I think the others-"

Richie cut him off, mumbled the same excuse he had given twice already that morning.

"Yeah, I know, 'dates in Reno'." Bill sounded tired. "But, Richie," he looked him directly in the face, hammering the words in through his eyes, "are you sure this is what you want?"

***

Eddie woke with a start, as if something had roused him. For a moment he didn't know where he was. He gazed confusedly around the room, sleep inertia matting his brain. Looking down, he saw that he was fully dressed in filthy, ripped clothes, having fallen asleep on top of what he now identified as the paisley coverlet of his bed at the Derry Town House. He can't have been asleep very long; summer-morning light filtered in through the bathroom, and unless he had slept for nearly twenty-four hours (granted, it was possible, but his feeling of exhaustion said that he was currently still sleep-deprived), then he'd probably been in his room for an hour at most. Eddie groaned. He needed more sleep very badly, but he knew that wouldn't happen now, especially once he remembered the kinds of unholy muck that were caked into his clothes and onto his skin. He needed a shower. It would probably make him feel a lot better too, and maybe if the others were awake they could all push through the afternoon together, and he could sleep fourteen hours tonight. He'd rather get out of Derry today, right fucking now if he could, but none of them were in any shape to drive. They'd have survived their encounter with Pennywise only to fall asleep behind the wheel and die splattered on the turnpike. One more day.

The hot water stung Eddie all over, covered as he was in a thousand tiny cuts and scratches, plus one or two bigger and more conspicuous. Watching impassively as the dirty water flowed down his legs, returning the filth and microbes back to where they came from, Eddie was vaguely surprised at his own lack of emotional response. The stinging told him that he was laced with tiny open wounds, ripe for infestation with staph or strep or Christ-knows what other microorganisms were swimming around in Derry's sewers, and yet he felt strangely unmoved. He _should_ probably change the bandage on his face, though. Just because he wasn't freaking out about the greywater in his other cuts didn't mean he was an idiot. He probably needed to give his hand a good clean, too. Eddie regarded the long, shallow cut running across the back of his left hand and onto his index finger, and shuddered. He had been remarkably lucky. The cut started near his wrist as barely a scratch, deepening to perhaps a sixteenth of an inch beside the fingernail. One second later, and he would probably have lost his hand, maybe even the whole arm. Eddie shuddered again and then winced as he lathered soap onto the wound; he did not need whatever awful, extra-terrestrial bacteria that lived inside It's mouth eating away at his finger. Any resulting infection would surely cause a stir in the medical community, though. Eddie pictured orange pom-poms proliferating across his hand, and had to shake the disturbing image from his brain.

***

Something in Bill's voice gave Richie pause. He narrowed his eyes but responded to the overt question.

"It's not that I want to, Bill, I've got commitments..."

Bill just maintained that meaningful look, staring down at him from beneath raised eyebrows. Clearly, he was not fooled. Richie sighed.

"Bev?" He asked resignedly. Bill nodded. Richie had wondered how much she had surmised from his little display outside Eddie’s room; evidently, quite a bit. Who else had she told?

Richie sighed again, dropping the pretence. "Look, I just... I can't stay, Bill," he said earnestly. "I don't want to leave you guys again, but it's too hard. I need to go."

Bill nodded his understanding, mouth a straight line of joyless assent. "Will we see you again?"

"Of course!" Richie cried, disturbed by the implication. "Of course you will. Christ! Just give me a little while to you know, recover from my near-death experience, and we'll hang out." He looked straight at Bill. "I mean it."

Bill softened a little, partially satisfied. He had to ask though, "all of us?"

Richie took his meaning. He looked away, silent for a moment.

"I don't know."

***

Shower-warm and finally clean, Eddie laid back across his bed, wrapped in a bathrobe. As predicted, he felt better after the shower, though he was still deathly tired. A fresh bandage covered his left cheek, and a single steri-strip held together the deeper part of the cut on his hand. It was a token gesture mostly; he'd had worse scratches from his neighbour's cat when he was young (though from his mother's reaction at the time, you'd think he'd been slashed open by a tiger). On some level maybe conscious to Eddie, maybe not, the small medical intervention was an acknowledgement of how serious the cut _could_ have been _, would_ have been, had Richie not reacted so quickly.

Eddie raked his fingers through his wet hair, trying to summon the energy to get dressed and leave his room in search of the others. There had been only minimal noise from the staircase and lobby outside his room since he awoke, not enough to infer what the rest of the Losers were doing. He hoped at least some of them were awake. The solitude was starting to get to him, and he didn't want to find himself alone when he finally left the oasis of his room. Eddie wished again that he could leave Derry today. In the exhausted physical and emotional aftermath of the trauma they'd all endured, he felt in himself a sort of regressive helplessness, a desire to be held and cared for and protected. To retreat to the womb of comfort and familiarity. _Soon._ He told himself. _Just one more day._ He was happy and grateful to be surrounded by his friends, but he knew he wouldn't feel right until he got out of this god-forsaken place. A loud rumble from Eddie's stomach interrupted his fantasy. _Just one more day. But now–lunch_.

***

Richie did know.

Bill had wished him safe travels and returned reluctantly to the Town House, his shoes crunching on the cracked asphalt's loose gravel dandruff. Still, Richie sat with his hands on the wheel, the GT's engine dormant beneath the hood. Bill had been disquieted enough by Richie's impending, surreptitious departure, and Richie didn't want to hand over any more emotional baggage than he had to, knowing that it would be Bill's job to inform the others of where he had gone. But the honest answer to Bill's final question was no, Richie didn't intend to see _all_ of the Losers again.

The thought burned into him like a brand. It was abhorrent, but it was necessary. Vital, in the true sense of the word; _necessary to life_. Richie had survived their encounter with the clown and now he had to go on living, which would be impossible in the context of further proximity to Eddie Kaspbrak... He would die. Not that final, full-stop death that frightens humans so much that we invented religion and intermittent fasting and Xanax. No, Richie would die a death of a thousand commas, a slow and aching everyday death that would feel like an eternity, like the black-and-white horror movie ghost, cursed to wander the same halls until the end of time. Richie snorted a little at this last thought; he really had a flair for the dramatic. It felt true, though. In fact, he had rarely been as sure of anything in his life.

The deadlights had shown him. The instant It had taken him in Richie was falling, falling into that infinite blackness. In all directions nothing, with no up or down or yesterday or tomorrow. Just utter, utter _nothing_ , a stagnant pool of complete absence with no time and no place. Richie was frightened, but knew that the fear arose from the incomprehensibility of this emptiness. If he did understand, if his mind found and grasped the true edges of what he was experiencing there would be no fear; he would simply crack. He looked down at his hands, still very much real amongst the stark unreality of his surroundings. _Look at my hands, maaan_ , he thought in a Tommy Chong drone, perversely amused. It was reassuring to find that he could think and imagine: It meant that wherever he was, he really _was_. 'Richie' still existed.

A high, cold voice boomed suddenly out of nowhere, "If they're called fingers, why don't they 'fing'?" Shrill laughter at Richie's renewed terror. "Heya, Trashmouth, _why so serious?!_ We can still get in some good chucks, don'cha know? It'll be _chuckalicious_ , just you and me, forever and ever amen."

"Let me go, you played-out piece of circus trash!" shouted Richie into the dark, trying to steady his voice. "We're going to fuck you the fuck up!"

"Beep beep, Richie," the voice replied, mockingly. "Since you're just _hanging_ there, why don't we _jam_ , huh? Let's _shoot the breeze."_ It paused for a moment, luxuriating in Richie's helpless fear. "So, tell me-" it affected a businesslike tone "-what's next for the great Richard Tozier? Some shows in Reno, then maybe Boise and Salem, and then what? Hmm? Brunch and auditions? Whiskey and molly and twinks in the bathroom stall? Huh? Richie? Huh? Whaddaya reckon? Sounds like a HOOT!" The last word was shouted, almost deafening as it reverberated throughout the Empty, as if bouncing off a thousand invisible walls. Richie pressed his palms to his ears, shoulders scrunched against the onslaught.

"You gotta get home fast, Richie. So many pretty boys to be had! Ohhh the world's your oyster when you've got nobody to love... Oh, Hey! Hey Richie! I've got an idea... Why don't you just stay here with me?" It was cooing now, barely suppressing its own amusement behind an obsequious simper. "Just stay here with old Pennywise, huh? I could love you like he never will Richie. Old Pennywise will never turn you away. Just you and me, forever in the deadlights. Wouldn't that be nice?" Another shrill giggle as Richie drifted in helpless silence, his hands dropping from his ears to float limply at his sides.

A long pause, and then the voice dropped to a low register. "He will never love you, Richie." It almost whispered. "He's going to go back to his wife and you will live alone, Richie. And you will die alone, Richie. And no one will come. And no one will cry. Poor Richie, all alone in his nice apartment. All alone and Eddie happy with his wife, two-thousand miles away. Is it worth it, Richie? What are you fighting for? Just let go, that's a good boy. It's easy. Just let go and let old Pennywise take care of you."

Richie hung silently in the Nothing. It felt like he was spinning slowly on the vertical, but with nothing for reference he couldn't know for sure. What _was_ he fighting for? The clown had found a foothold in his brain, growing firmer with each word. He could fight his way out of wherever he was–assuming that were even possible–and then what? Another twenty years filling his own personal Empty with sex and jokes and brief interactions with minor celebrities? Decades more of recruiting too-young Eddie facsimiles to mask the pathetic adolescent yearning that never diminished, only grew as the years etched themselves onto his face? Going up onstage to do crude monologues about his 'wife' to auditoriums of anonymous faces, plenty of whom knew fully well that he lived alone?

For what felt like eons Richie spun there like a fly dangling from a spider's web, his will draining away with each passing moment.

"That's right," It soothed, the amusement now gone from its voice, replaced by a carefully controlled urgency. "You don't have to go back. Just let go, Richie. Just let go..."

"Just let go!" _Eddie's wild eyes were glaring at him, as he tried to yank the hammock out of Richie's hands._ "You had it all of yesterday, and I-want-a-TURN!" _Eddie punctuated each word with an aggressive tug at the brown material, succeeding at 'turn' to pull the entire thing away from Richie. "A-ha!" he screamed in triumph, scrambling to hoist his small body into the unsteady folds of material._

_"Oh Christ, Eds. FINE then!" Secretly, Richie had loosened his grip, allowing Eddie to win._

_Eddie wasn't watching what he was doing, still grinning jubilantly into Richie's face while he struggled with the hammock. Richie saw the mirth in his eyes turn to shock as he overbalanced, one foot tangled in the swathes of fabric. Eddie pitched helplessly forward, hands outstretched as he fell face-first towards the dirt floor of the clubhouse. Without thinking, Richie threw himself downwards, filling the distance between Eddie's teeth and certain injury. Eddie landed heavily on top of him, driving the wind painfully out of his lungs. The commotion drew the attention of Stan and Bev, the only two others in the clubhouse that day. As they helped Richie to his feet, Eddie rolled to sitting on the floor. He gazed up at Richie in wide-eyed admiration, as if Richie had just saved his life. Still coughing from the blow to his solar plexus, Richie looked down at Eddie, drinking in that gaze through watering eyes. He would take an elbow to the guts every single day for the rest of his natural life, if it meant he could have that look again. He would throw himself on a thousand dirt floors. He would protect Eddie Kaspbrak to the death, if he had to. He would-_

Blackness again, as Richie's gaze shifted from his past to his present. Somewhere out there, Eddie was fighting It. Eddie and Mike, Bill, Ben and Beverley were in a dark and cold place of their own, fighting with their lives to protect him and each other and all the children of Derry, born and not yet thought of. They needed him now, and whatever desolation awaited Richie in L.A. didn't matter. Today, he needed to fight.

A scream of fury pierced Richie's ears, seemed to rip through his very core. It had sensed the change in him and did not mean to give him up so easily.

"YOU WILL DIE IN HERE, RICHIE! YOU AND YOUR LITTLE FRIENDS WILL ALL FLOAT AND ROT DOWN HERE UNTIL THE EARTH RUNS OUT! YOU'RE ALREADY DEAD, RICHIE, DEADDEADDEADDEADDEADDEAD-"

The darkness was filled with roaring wind as Richie was ripped backward, back and back through the vast nothingness until the Nothing grew bright, and he was slammed into the dirt of the cavern floor. The second he landed, Richie saw Eddie pitching forward from the hammock again, but then there was no hammock and Eddie was not falling; he was standing tall, arm thrust into the mouth of the monster, which was shrieking pain and fury into his face. Instantly Richie was upon him, pushing him forcefully away from the screaming creature. Eddie's arm withdrew from its jaws in the instant they snapped together, the hand grasping his inhaler escaping mutilation by milliseconds.

For the second time in less than a day, Richie found himself on top of Eddie, looking down into his face. It felt like a bookend, like grasping the same door handle on the way out instead of in. Eddie's mouth was moving rapidly, bubbling out a stream of words that Richie couldn't hear. He took a long drink from those eyes; one for the road. Then Bill rushed past him, and Ben and Mike and finally Bev, and they were on top of It, tearing and kicking and shouting. Eddie grasped his shoulders and pushed, sliding from beneath him and then pulling him towards the fray. Sounds rushed back, becoming sharp and real as the Richie's senses caught up. His legs worked and then he, too was grabbing at its vulnerable, corporeal body, cleaving pieces away as it wailed in that terrible pitch.

Richie's stomach lurched at sensation of flesh tearing beneath his hands, and suddenly he was back in the summer sun, a film of sweat coating the leather beneath his palms. His hands were aching, and he saw that the knuckles were white.

***

Creeping down the stairs, Eddie looked for signs of life. He was dressed in chinos and a white under-shirt, all of his other clothes having been ruined by blood–his and It's–and other ungodly filth in the past twenty-four hours. Normally, he would feel self-conscious about wearing what was essentially underwear in public, but he found he couldn't muster a single fuck to give. Eddie supposed that was what they called _perspective_. After leaving the quiet-but-lonely refuge of his room, Eddie had rapped gently on the other Losers' doors, receiving no response. Both Bill's and Ben's rooms were unlocked, and Eddie cautiously pushed open their doors; empty. For a split-second he was afraid that they had all gone home, leaving him alone in Derry, but quickly he dismissed the idea as ludicrous. Instead, he was now growing a little annoyed; _those assholes had better not have gone to get food without me_. Reaching the ground floor, he looked across the lobby and saw sunlight spilling in through an open door. To his surprise, Eddie found a small, pleasant outdoor area at the rear of the building, a deck complete with chairs and a large table. Bev and Mike were seated and talking quietly beneath the awning while Ben wandered around the garden, peering with interest into each vibrant flowerbed. Bev held in her hand a twelve-dollar can of scotch and coke from the minibar; it looked very appealing to Eddie. He flopped down into a worn wicker chair next to Mike.

Mike smiled. "Hey Eddie."

"Hey guys." They all looked at each other a long moment; there seemed to be little that needed saying. The biblical storm clouds of the early morning had cleared into a warm, bright day and though they were all very tired and pretty beat-up, more than anything they were grateful that the nightmare was behind them. The rest of their lives could start today. 

Eddie broke the silence, but not out of discomfort. "You guys eaten yet?" They shook their heads. "Great, let's get something soon." Ben raised a hand in silent greeting when he registered Eddie's arrival, continuing to pad contentedly around the yard like a family Labrador. Mike and Beverley resumed their quiet conversation about 'what now'.

"It's hard to even know where to start... Part of me thought I'd never get to leave Derry," said Mike. He looked thoughtful for a moment. "I've always wanted to see the Library of Congress... Maybe I'll start with DC."

Bev laughed openly at him. "You're gonna leave your library for another library?!" She shook her head, still laughing.

Mike chuckled good-naturedly. "Maybe I'll start with libraries and work my way up through museums." It was easy to laugh today. "What about you, Eddie?" Mike turned to face him. "You'd be keen to get out of here, get home to your wife...?"

"Well..." Eddie thought for a moment, rolled the words around in his mouth. "I'm keen to get out of Derry..."

Mike waited expectantly, and then realised Eddie had finished his sentence. "Oh. Well..." He cast around for a change of topic, a little awkwardly but mostly out of respect for Eddie's privacy–he didn't seem to invite further questions on the matter. "Maybe I'll come visit you all–wherever you are–in a little while. Tour the country and then maybe a trip to Canada. You ever been, Bev?"

The conversation moved on, and Eddie allowed himself to drift away from the chatter. It felt good to speak the truth out loud, even if it was just a fragment. He really did want to get out of Derry, hopefully curl into semi-hibernation for a while and be cared for by someone safe and familiar. Care for them in turn. But he had no intention for that someone to be Myra.

Eddie stared into the garden, his eyes slipping gradually, relaxedly out of focus. After a little while–seconds or minutes, it was impossible to say–Eddie noticed that he was rubbing idly at the scratch on his hand. He looked down and again contemplated the thin, red line bridged by a white adhesive plaster. The moment in which he had acquired it swam lazily to mind.

 _"Here, have some of this!" He screamed, blasting burning-hot acid from his inhaler straight into It's huge, rolling eye. It was acid because he_ believed _it was acid. The creature screamed in agony and Eddie drew back his fist, striking out at its horrible face. Before he knew what was happening, a slimy warmth up to his shoulder told Eddie that–oh HORROR–he had plunged his arm down its gullet. A second squeeze of the inhaler shot acid straight down its throat into whatever disgusting organ digested its prey, and the shrieking grew even louder, bouncing deafeningly off the cavern walls. In that same instant, Eddie felt a hard blow to his midsection and was thrown backward onto the ground. For a second he was ready to fight, but then he comprehended Richie's large form hovering protectively over him. Eddie looked down at his stinging left hand and saw that it was bleeding, and he realised with sickening clarity Richie had just saved him from dismemberment._

Footsteps in the lobby rescued Eddie from his troubled thoughts. He clenched and unclenched his fist, comforted that it was still very much attached to his body. Seconds later, Bill appeared in the doorway. He regarded Eddie with what looked like momentary unease, before smiling at the three of them and taking a seat at the table.

"Afternoon," he said, by way of greeting.

"Hey, Big Bill," responded Eddie vaguely; something about Bill's expression had loosed a small piece of disquiet within him.

Beverley was talking now, "Eddie was just saying we should get some lunch."

"Yeah? Good call Eddie," agreed Bill. "What do you feel like? Your choice."

Eddie was gazing into the middle distance. His eyes narrowed.

"Eddie?"

He looked towards Bill. "Where's Richie?" he asked.

Bill glanced uncomfortably towards Bev. Eddie followed his gaze.

"What? Bev, where's Richie?"

Bev only looked at him, the corner of her mouth twitching downward as her eyebrows knotted together. Panic crept up Eddie's neck like hives. He looked back at Bill.

" _Where is he?_ Bill... _Did he leave?"_

A tense pause, and then Bill nodded, watching Eddie cautiously as one might watch an undetonated bomb.

" _WHAT?! When?!"_ Eddie was making no attempt to hide his distress, and Ben stepped up from the garden to see what was going on.

For his part, Bill was working hard to keep his voice level, be the calming influence they had always needed him to be. "Just now. Eddie-"

Eddie was up in a screeching of chairs, had stepped hurriedly over Mike and Bev's legs before the back of his seat even hit the ground, which it did with a _bang._

***

"Ahhh," Richie groaned, loosing his grip and stretching his fingers. It hurt worse for a moment, and then the pain in his hands subsided. He'd been sitting in the GT with the key in the ignition for almost twenty minutes and had no delusions about why he was still there, even after Bill had taken his leave: He didn't really want to go. What he _wanted_ was to be sitting sleepily in the sunshine, trading lazy, good-natured jabs with a fiery and funny and brave man that he was privileged to know. To be surrounded by five wonderful people, all enjoying their first moments of true peace in twenty-seven years. It was an appealing fantasy, but there would be no peace for Richie. He had to go. He had not let go in the deadlights, though for a moment he felt as though he might. No, he held on, and his holding on had saved Eddie, and for that Richie was grateful beyond measure. Nonetheless, the clown had exposed the raw nerve of his pain with scalpel-accuracy, and its words reverberated in his head, intensifying steadily like audio feedback in its indisputable truth: To be with Eddie and not _be with_ Eddie was a torment he couldn't withstand. Richie knew that very little of meaning awaited him at home, but he could manage the pain of being alone–he'd done that for years. The misery of being alone in the presence of the very person who could salve his loneliness was a pain he could _not_ manage; it would crack him apart as surely as full comprehension of the Nothing in the deadlights would have cracked him. It wasn't a choice, it was an existential imperative. He had to go. Richie didn't think he would forget this time, the way they had all forgotten before, but he could try, and in seven years all his cells would have turned over and he'd occupy a body that had never been touched by Eddie Kaspbrak. Maybe then he could find something like peace.

The inevitable conclusion of his inner discourse finally reached, Richie looked up into the clear sky, summoning his courage as he blinked against the prickling in his eyes. Then in one rapid motion he turned the key, pulled on the gearshift, and reversed a smooth, fast arc out of the parking space, looking over his shoulder with an arm hooked around the passenger seat. Leaning forward to throw it quickly into gear, Richie pressed hard on the accelerator for a fifth of a second, before stamping the brake in panic.

"JESUS-FUCK!" His heart exploded in frenzied beats.

Eddie had appeared from nowhere, literally inches from the front bumper. His hands were on the hood, eyes wide in a countenance of almost-equal shock. For a moment he just stood there, chest rising and falling rapidly, before coming to his senses and scrambling around the car to jump into the passenger side.

"You're leaving?! Why are you leaving? You didn't even say goodbye! Is it because you still feel weird? Don't feel weird, you don't have to feel weird- I... I don't want you to feel weird-"

Richie tried to cut in as he drew a breath, "Eddie-"

"I can't _believe_ you were just going to leave! Without even saying goodbye? Jesus Richie you haven't seen us in thirty years and you were just going to go?! Don't! Don't go!" Eddie was short of breath, and Richie could see him becoming hysterical. "I don't want you to go! I-"

Eddie drew a sharp, effortful inhale that transfigured Richie's intense discomfort into legitimate fright. Any second Eddie would start wheezing, and although Richie had seen it hundreds of times it had never stopped scaring him, and was somehow worse now that Eddie was grown.

"Eddie, _stop_!" Richie interrupted loudly, at the same time shutting off the ignition. Eddie's shoulders heaved with his hitching breath. Softer now: "Just breathe, okay? I'm not going anywhere right now, alright? _Breathe."_

Eddie nodded, and Richie lengthened his own exhales, exaggerating the sound and movement of his chest for Eddie to follow. For half a minute the two men sat without talking, shoulders and chests gradually falling into synchronous rhythm. It didn't take long, the intervention practiced over hundreds of ( _panic)_ asthma attacks clearly no less potent now than it was when they were kids. Again, Eddie saw himself in a plaster cast, held in Richie's steady gaze as they breathed together, anxiety spiralling slowly down to zero.

Sensing Eddie's respiration returning to normal, Richie allowed his own to do the same. The frightening episode now past, he suddenly remembered his own unease and didn't know where to look, or more pressingly, what to say. He had almost gotten clear without making a messy scene of everything, and was not at all prepared for this turn of events.

Calm and quieter, entreatingly this time, Eddie asked again. "Richie, why are you leaving?"

A simple question, not easy to answer. Eddie's sincerity made it impossible for Richie to lie, but he didn't think he could tell the truth, either. He was completely stuck, mind circling back over the same simple facts again and again, never arriving at a solution. Eddie watched his silent struggle for what felt like an age, until Richie finally inhaled deeply as if to answer. He held the breath as he turned to make eye-contact with Eddie, and after several seconds merely puffed out his cheeks and slowly, defeatedly let the air drain back out. Then he looked straight ahead onto Main Street and chewed silently at the inside of his cheek.

Watching him, Eddie could see that Richie was really wrestling with something. It hurt to see him so overpowered by whatever it was, and it was becoming clear that he was not going to be able to speak it out. Eddie decided that it was time to be brave.

"Are you going because of what happened in my room?" He asked evenly, though his insides were a bag of snakes.

"Kind of..." Richie replied quietly, still staring fixedly ahead.

"Is it because you wish it didn't happen?"

Richie swallowed, then shook his head.

"Is it because I stopped it?"

"No- not exactly... Sort of. I-" Richie scrunched his eyes closed and tried to think of what to say, simultaneously summoning his courage and bracing himself against what might happen next. Eddie sensed that they were coming close to the core of it all and waited patiently for the answer, but Richie faltered again, this time pressing his palms hard against his forehead in frustration.

"Richie, pull back into the space for a minute."

"What?"

"Pull back into the parking space, please." Eddie felt exposed, the two of them sitting in this open cabin in the middle of the lot, blocking the road for any cars that might come in. Richie started the Mustang and eased it back between the painted lines, pulling them into the semi-shade of a large tree in the neighbouring yard. The sound of the engine died again, and Richie looked expectantly at his passenger.

 _Be brave be brave be brave,_ Eddie thought desperately to himself. It was now or never. He drew a deep breath.

"Richie," he started slowly, "when you were in the deadlights, I was so scared. You were just, like, _hanging_ there. You looked... You looked almost like you were dead." Eddie paused, fending off the hateful image, still so fresh in his mind. "The longer you were stuck there, the more you seemed to... To wilt. It was like I was watching your life drain away."

Richie was gazing almost hypnotically into Eddie's eyes, wondering as they turned glassy and pained. He remembered the clown's taunts and coaxing whispers, how he'd been drawn so close to surrender; Eddie had seen it happen, without knowing why.

"It was the worst thing I've ever seen, Rich. I have never been that scared before in my life. _Ever._ I thought- I thought I was going to lose you." Eddie continued, frightened now to stop. "I went crazy, I just ran at it and I just had the idea that my inhaler might work again, like it did the first time on the eye, and it did work and it screamed and I just hit it and hit it because it had you and it was going to hurt you and I wanted to _just fucking kill it_ for touching you, and then my arm was in its mouth and you saved me. And you were always saving me, all the time but not like my mother, you saved me and let me _be me_ and you made me feel big when my mom always tried to make me small, and Myra always tries to make me small. And I don't want to be small anymore and I don't want to lose you again and I- just _please stay with me,_ Richie _._ " He finished, eyes blazing into Richie's, all traces of timidity gone.

Richie stared dumbly at him, taking in his searching eyes and the colour flaring across his cheeks. An understanding of Eddie's words was beginning to coalesce, but he didn't dare believe it. What did he _actually say?_ He said that he had been scared that Richie would die, and that he didn't want to lose him, and that Richie protected him without smothering him. That could be just friend stuff, maybe. It felt like more, his tone and his eyes made it seem like more. But what if it wasn't? Richie was terrified to fill the gaps, assume a meaning in case he was wrong. Dizzying heights– _too far to fall_.

"I... I'll stay, Eddie."

"No, Richie. Stay _with me."_

Richie's mouth dropped open. He seemed to short-circuit, brain a tangle of torn wires, sparking and twitching but conducting very little. Meanwhile, Eddie was in freefall. As the silence drew on, he became more doubtful of a soft landing. Maybe he had read it all wrong... He had thrown himself over the edge semi-blind, unsure of what he would find, and the small kernel of belief that Richie felt more for him than just friendship or lust was starting to feel like a faulty parachute. _Oh Christ_ , he thought suddenly, fear intensifying as the ground drew closer, _what if it really was just about sex?_ Eddie's boldness faltered, threatened to collapse. _No!_ He remembered Bev's words, _'the woman you wish you'd never married, or the man you wish you had?' No going back now, Eddie. At least make it count._

"I want you, Richie!" He blurted, louder than intended. "I'm leaving Myra, I want to be with you, okay?! Just..." He drew a steadying breath, fought to maintain eye contact. "Do you want me too?"

The weak, sparking currents of Richie's mind just gave out completely, falling dark and quiet and useless. It didn't matter. He didn't need to think.

"Yes." Voice cracked and trembling, but without hesitation. "Eds, I want you so fucking bad."

Eddie's tension broke like a dam, joy and relief better than the strongest opiate flooding his body. He almost laughed. Richie watched the change overtake him. It was the final seal; the last, undeniable proof that it all meant what Richie wanted it to mean. It was _real._ Astonishment and elation shone from his face, quickly obscured as Eddie grasped his shirt and pulled him into deep kiss.

A small commotion erupted behind the townhouse, and Eddie looked up to see Beverley jumping up and down in not-quite-silent celebration, before Bill grabbed her by the shoulders and pulled her out of view, raising a hand in apology. Richie saw it too and looked apprehensively to Eddie for a reaction, but to his relief was greeted with a carefree laugh, Eddie immediately pulling himself into Richie's lap, hands lacing across his neck to draw him into another slow kiss. Richie smiled against his mouth as each slow tide of lips and tongue bore renewed assurance that it was real, Eddie's tangible weight in his lap a truth a thousand times better than the most wonderful fantasy. He looped his arms lazily around Eddie's waist, enjoying its material solidness.

Before long, Eddie's back started to hurt from the awkward, twisting position he'd adopted to fit into Richie's lap, a reminder that he was a man approaching forty making out in a car in broad daylight, like a teenager. It gave him a juvenile thrill, and as if to prove the point he shifted to playfully straddle Richie's hips. He looked down at him–though by less of an angle than expected; Richie's height was a considerable leveller–and Richie's adoring, upward gaze made him feel powerful... Seductive. It was a sort of sexual agency that Eddie had never experienced before, and it combined headily with the outright _hotness_ of the man beneath him. _Between his legs._ A covetous smile spread slowly across Eddie's face. It was almost predatory, a sort of look that Richie had never ever seen in all the years they'd known each other, and the naked lust it betrayed caused a knot to form low in Richie's abdomen. He gulped and Eddie, reading his reaction clearly despite never having elicited such a response from anyone before, felt his own desire jump a notch. He grasped Richie's head and leant downward, eye closing and-

The Mustang's horn blared as Eddie's butt made contact with the wheel. Both men jumped, the loud noise tearing mercilessly into their total preoccupation with one another. The pulse at Richie's temples quickened beneath Eddie's fingers, and it matched his own; there was no doubt their ordeal still left an impression on their nerves. It only lasted a second however, each of them grounded quickly through their physical connection to the other. _Safe._

Richie began to laugh, which started Eddie into giggling. He curled downward until his forehead found the headrest, laughing into Richie's ear for a long, easy time as the other's shoulders shook beneath him. Eventually, Richie passed his fingers and thumb beneath the frame of his glasses to wipe away tears of mirth, while Eddie leaned back to sitting and scratched his head.

"Do you think maybe we should find a more civilised place to eat each other's faces off?" Richie asked.

"I guess we'd better. Not least because the others are right over there-" Eddie gestured vaguely toward the back of the Town House, "and none of them have paid for a ticket." He opened the driver's door and stepped gracelessly down from on top of Richie, who followed closely behind. They crossed the parking lot in companionable silence and were almost at the front door when Eddie remembered: "Oh, Rich I think you left the key in the ignition."

"Fuck it," replied Richie, not breaking stride and instead reaching for Eddie's hand. Eddie looked across at him and grinned, not caring to think of anything to say.

The lobby was as usual, deserted, though Eddie noted that the door to the rear deck had been pulled closed. As they reached the stairs, Eddie quickened his pace to walk a step ahead of Richie; he wanted Richie to see him take the lead, show him that he was all in. Just below the first landing, Eddie glanced back over his shoulder and fixed Richie with what he hoped was a flirtatious look. It was. Richie again had to mentally pinch himself, and was taken aback only for a second when he was pulled towards Eddie's own room: The sight of the bed hinted at the previous day's trouble, but immediately Richie saw that it was perfect. They were going to overwrite the past.

Richie closed the door behind them and leant back against it, allowing the distance between them to grow so that he could take in all of Eddie, head to toe. Eddie in his white undershirt, bandage across his cheek, hair carefully groomed in the same exact style it had always been–though parted on the other side from the boy in his memory. Richie would have killed for him then, and the sweet ache of tenderness nearly brought him undone.

"What?" Eddie asked, backing towards the bed.

Richie smiled. "Nothing."

Having dropped onto the mattress, Eddie sat cross-legged, leaning back with his hands behind him for support. Richie did not move from the door, and Eddie allowed a long, silent moment to pass while he regarded the man in front of him. The tall, broad man with greying stubble and a smile, gazing at Eddie like he was some divine being. Through the wrinkles beginning to etch Richie's face, Eddie could still see the friend he had loved, and yet there was more. He had loved the boy, yes, but the man was something in his own right, and Eddie loved him too.

"I love you." The words fell from his lips before he could catch them. _Oh fuck._

Eddie's wide-eyed shock told Richie that the words came unbidden, and he couldn't help but laugh at Eddie's dismay. It was a relief not to say it first. Technically this was only their second 'date’... _What does a lesbian bring on her second date? Her furniture_! Fuck it–no more wasted time. Richie moved to sit across from Eddie, whose eyes were still scrunched closed in rueful disbelief, and placed a hand each side of his face. When Eddie opened his eyes, Richie looked at him seriously and answered, "I love you too."

The balance blessedly restored, Eddie sighed into a half-chuckle. "Good." he said, and in one fluid motion leant forward to kiss Richie backwards onto the mattress. For a long time they just lay there, lips and jaws and tongues moving in slow, languorous waves, enjoying the taste of each other as early-afternoon sunlight slanted onto their nested forms. After a while, maybe a day, more likely five minutes, Eddie felt a vibration from his left hip.

"Woah, settle down, Eds," Richie offered, as Eddie rolled over to pull the phone out of his pocket. A message from Bev:

_We're all going to get lunch, will be gone for one hour. We'll bring back pizza x_

Richie laughed as Eddie finished reading it aloud. "What do you think she means by that? The woman is an enigma."

Eddie giggled and tossed the phone onto the floor.

"So, everyone knows, then?" Richie asked, propping up onto an elbow.

"Well, Bev come to check on me after... You know-"

Richie nodded.

"-and I told her about what happened and about... How I'd basically been in love with you since like 1988-"

Richie smiled, nodding again.

"And so now... Yeah, I guess everyone knows... Sorry."

Richie laughed again, shaking his head. "It's fine, Eds. I'm pretty sure Bev knew it thirty years ago, anyway." He looked thoughtful for a moment. "I think Stan knew it, too."

Eddie nodded, a flicker of sadness moving between them. "I wouldn't doubt it, he seemed to know everything... Do you remember how he used to roll his eyes at us?"

"Yeah... He knew for _sure_. You know at the time, I really thought I was keeping it on the downlow."

"Well you kept it from me well enough. Probably because I was too busy with my own angst." Eddie sighed. "You know, I keep having this memory of all of us sitting around in the clubhouse–it must have been not too long before you left Derry because we were both getting way too tall for the hammock, even though I _still_ insisted on getting in there with you.. Christ, no wonder Stan rolled his eyes at us–anyway, I remember sitting there and looking at you and just wanting to kiss you _so bad_. I wish I had just fucking done it right there in the hammock in front of anyone, instead of spending all those years sulking around feeling sorry for myself, and trying to find ways to touch you without being obvious." Suddenly, Eddie felt embarrassed, and wound up the thought with another sigh, "so much wasted time."

Richie felt the same wistful regret trying to well up inside himself, but refused to engage with it. Not now. There was too much to be thankful for. "Well..." he intoned seriously, "we've got ourselves a _whole hour_ right now." Richie cocked an eyebrow salaciously, with a sly grin.

A sound point, Eddie decided. By way of agreement he launched at Richie's face, wrestling him playfully back to laying. Richie laughed into his mouth, a laugh quickly extinguished by something altogether more serious. 

The taste of Richie whet Eddie's appetite, and he was _starving_. The _Terrible Tuesday_ diet had kept him skinny and pallid, like a weekly force-feeding of something non-nutritive... Sawdust. Now he wanted to feast, grow fat and sleek on the deliciousness of what he'd found. Not for nothing, Richie had the sense of being devoured, and it was fucking _hot._ He moaned softly as Eddie's tongue slipped boldly against his own, and the evidence of the effect he was causing felt like a sort of magic to Eddie. He nipped experimentally at Richie's bottom lip and delighted in the sound it elicited; he was _doing that,_ he was _making that happen_. The sheer sense of ownership of his own sexuality–hell, the sense of even _having_ sexuality–was thrilling.

So completely had he repressed this part of himself that on occasion, Eddie had wondered if he was pretty much asexual. Now things from his young life were coming back, like the picture of Mario Lopez he'd torn from a magazine and kept secretly behind his dressing table, and watching the Derry High School basketball team squeak around the court in their little shorts, heat rising from the neck of his shirt. And Richie, obviously. There were no real memories of attraction to girls or women, though; only a kind of captivated awe for Greta Bowie–which at age nine was more like enchantment with her fairytale-princess beauty than anything else–as well as a childish fascination with the sheer enormity of their neighbour, Mrs. Van Prett's bosom. That seemed to be the extent of it. Probably he was gay then? It felt okay, wasn't currently registering more than a 1.0 on the ego-threat scale. Briefly he thought of the sneer his mother wore when she spoke of Phil and Tony Tracker, the 'confirmed bachelors' that had lived on West Broadway. Eddie was aware enough of Sonia's influence on him to know that he'd probably have some vestigial shame to wrangle later on but, for now at least, the square-jawed man moaning at each flash of his tongue made gay look pretty fucking good. Anyway, fuck it–he'd sure as shit earned this hour of unquestioned enjoyment. Eddie punctuated the thought with a fresh dive onto Richie's face, and for good measure slid his hands beneath Richie's head and tugged lightly at his hair. An increase in volume rewarded his efforts.

A modicum of power was retaken as Richie snaked his hands up Eddie's sides beneath the flimsy undershirt, drawing a pointed inhale from his friend. _No_ , Richie thought, _from my boyfriend_ ; their congress this time was undoubtedly beneath a different banner. It even felt different, the tense, don't-talk-or-you'll-ruin-it vibe of their last encounter replaced by a no less desirous, but palpably more stable energy. They were each other's now, no fear of scaring the other into retreat. _Fuck. Yes._ Richie slid his hands up Eddie's sides again, allowing thumbs to track onto his stomach. Some larynx in the breath this time, telling Richie that his actions were moving things forward. Hands _down_ Eddie's side now, and again and again, thumbs tracings closer to the middle and lower on each pass. One final stroke, and Richie's hands travelled all the way down to graze along Eddie's belt, dipping beneath it for a fraction of a second, before abandoning their route and fanning out across Eddie's back and down onto his ass.

"Oh-h-h-h.." Eddie gasped quietly. He took the opportunity of the broken connection between their mouths to plant loud, wet kisses across Richie's neck, who murmured in appreciation and curled one hand into Eddie's hair, the other now grasping decisively into the flesh of his ass. Still sucking hungrily at his neck, Eddie began to undo Richie's shirt. He moved his head to linger beneath freshly exposed collarbones, before chasing the progress of each popped button until Richie's entire torso was bare. Straddling Richie's thighs to enjoy the sight of his shirtless partner, Eddie looked Richie hungrily up and down, and the carnal flash of his desiring eyes made Richie gulp. He lay still beneath the steady gaze until it became too much.

"Okay, well this isn't fair." Richie almost succeeded at casual humour, but the strained note in his voice betrayed him. He sat up and grasped the bottom edge of Eddie's shirt, making sure to graze Eddie's skin as much as possible as he drew it up and over. "Fuck." He managed, eyeing Eddie greedily before grabbing at that naked torso and pushing it backward onto the pillows, working himself smoothly into the space between Eddie's legs.

"Woah..." Eddie uttered admiringly. Richie just treated him to a roguish wink, meant in humour but serving only to amplify the effect of his prowess. Eddie wondered for the first time how many people Richie had slept with–he clearly had plenty of practice. A bright speck of jealousy flared within him, but it didn't bite too hard. If anything, it made him feel like the chosen one. _That's right, bitches._ "Mine." he said aloud, and Richie chuckled. "Yours," he agreed, and reached for Eddie's hands. Fingers threaded together, Richie gazed at him a moment longer, before pushing their nested palms onto the pillow beside Eddie's ears, leaning down to crush their mouths together once more. _Oh yeah._ Being in control had felt good to Eddie–fresh and exciting–but oh fuck, _this was good too._ Luxuriating in surrender as that considerable frame bore down upon him, Eddie felt Richie fill steadily more of the space between his legs, until finally the concrete bulge of his dick drove against Eddie's own _. Ohhhhh._ At this incitement, Eddie tore his hands from beneath Richie's and used them to draw his pelvis down even harder, causing Richie to drop an open-mouthed moan and fall convulsively into slow, rhythmic grinding. Both men were breathing heavily now, and presently Eddie pushed through the ceiling of their previous encounter by sliding his hands between them and undoing Richie's belt and fly with surprising deftness. He drew them down a few inches, before Richie stood up to hurriedly finish the job. Eddie actually bit his lip at the sight of Richie's hard-on, thrown into sharp relief by his flimsy cotton boxers.

"Oh my fucking _god_ you are hot right now," Richie growled, watching his expression, and quickly bent down to undo Eddie's own pants. He tugged roughly at the tight chinos and Eddie had to grab hold of the bedhead for purchase, giggling as Richie pulled the hems over his feet and down. The material was so tight, in fact, that Eddie's underwear was dragged off in the process. Richie, intent on his work, didn't notice straight away. When finally the pants were thrown to the floor and he looked up, his brain fell out. _Holy Jesus._ Richie stared open-mouthed at the naked man on his bed, as sweat started to bead on his lower back. Eddie looked a little shocked at his unexpectedly complete undressing, though he recovered quickly as Richie threw himself onto the bed beside him and placed a hand immediately onto his thigh. He gasped as Richie drew the hand up his leg, across his hip, stomach, down onto the other thigh. Richie wasn't looking at his face now, head bowed instead to watch the circling of his own hand around Eddie's penis. Slowly, he passed the hand again and again across thigh, hip, abdomen, sometimes allowing his thumb or forearm to graze teasingly against a sensitive place. For Eddie, it felt like the beautiful torment went on for an age, his sensitivity ratcheting constantly upwards until each close encounter made him whine. 

Sensing that he was approaching breaking point, Richie shifted to look intently at Eddie's face, and Eddie had a split-second to wonder why before Richie curled one large hand around his shaft and immediately worked it with long, firm strokes. Eddie's eyebrows knitted sharply upwards, eyes closing fast as he gasped into a loud moan. For a minute he was paralysed under Richie's firm hand, aware only of the friction on his cock and the red splashes behind his eyelids. When finally he was able to open his eyes, he was met with Richie's gaze, so turgid with lust that it might have turned Eddie inside out. The sight caused a familiar electricity to flutter across his abdomen, and his hand darted down to stay the one on his dick.

" _Okay, stop,"_ he whispered urgently.

Richie saw that he was serious and started to grin, raising both hands in a gesture of surrender. He arranged his features into a look of innocence, but while Eddie was collecting himself, lowered a hand performatively back towards his crotch. Eddie flinched at the slightest touch and slapped the hand away.

"Stop! If you make me come right now, I swear to you the party's over."

"Yes sir, sorry sir!" Richie saluted, clearly still pleased with himself.

After taking another moment to centre himself, Eddie regarded the shit-eating grin still plastered on Richie's face. _Let's see how clever you are in a minute, Trashmouth_ , he thought.

"You think you're pretty funny, don't you Tozier?" Eddie asked.

"Oh, only a little bit," Richie teased.

Eddie rolled himself onto Richie, teasing his legs apart. "Yeah? Getting in some good _chucks_?"

He cut-off Richie's response with a kiss, demure at first before slowly working in his tongue in the same exact way that had drawn such a response, a few minutes earlier. Richie melted beneath him, mouth yielding open to accept the deep kisses. Satisfied that he had been tamed, Eddie left Richie's mouth to work those same kisses across his jaw and down his neck, lingering over a nipple before continuing down onto his stomach. He took his sweet time, adding a hand here and there to stroke and scratch lightly down the side of Richie's torso. Eddie could feel Richie watching his progress, hear his heavy breathing projected down towards him. Slowly, torturously he worked down Richie's abdomen, then along the band of his boxers, rewarded at extra-sensitive spots by a twitch from beneath him. 

Eddie was working very much off-script now, with scarce little experience to guide him. No experience, really; Myra considered oral sex to be 'dirty', and consequently Eddie had neither given nor received it from his wife. _Thank goodness for small mercies._ It wasn't terribly hard to predict what Richie might enjoy though, and each breath, murmur, twitch was feedback building into a working knowledge of how to _get Richie off_. Eddie curled two fingers from each hand beneath the elastic waistband, simultaneously flicking his eyes upward to meet his Richie's, who cracked visibly under his gaze.

Richie licked his lips, just managed to form words: "You sure, Eds?"

He had not forgotten that Eddie had never done this before, and he didn't want him to do anything that he didn't want to out of bravado, or a desire to please. For Eddie's own part yes, his heart was pounding and not just from arousal. This was in more ways than one a _big fucking deal_ , and he was nervous, but it was _excited_ nervous. It reminded him a little of the excitement he'd felt at his first true experience of pain, which had left him feeling perversely _real_ and _free._ This felt kind of similar, except this time it was pleasure, only pleasure. And it was _good_. _Oxycodone eat your heart out._ He nodded _yes_ , _I'm sure_ , and drew down the elastic printed 'Calvin Klein', freeing Richie's cock to spring lightly towards his face.

Oh boy.

Collecting himself after a stunned heartbeat, Eddie coordinated hands and face to guide the head gently into his mouth, closing his lips around the shaft. An almost-otherworldly whine rose from the head of the bed, and Eddie looked up again to see Richie's head lolling back on corded neck, mouth open and cursing a low-pitched "fu-uh-uuuk". Panting, Richie returned his gaze to the thirty-nine-year-old blowjob virgin with mouth full of him, making no effort to hide his helpless arousal. Until now, Eddie had almost forgotten his secondary objective of showing Richie who's boss, and he had to be careful with his teeth as a grin twitched at his dimples. _Richie couldn't be a wise-ass now if he tried._ Eddie began to swirl his tongue across the turgid flesh inside his mouth, simultaneously working a hand experimentally along the rest. Satisfied by Richie's response that this was a _good thing_ , he committed to the motion, hand, head and tongue synchronising into a rhythmic dance.

Richie looked on through a haze; it was like some kind of fucking _dream,_ this man, this fucking _angel_ -heaven-almighty-my-alpha-and-omega-reason-for-being, working away at him, all smooth hands and wet smacking and flashes of brown Bambi holy _fuck._ His senses warred for cerebral territory, sight and sound and touch all coalescing into a confusion of bliss that threatened to overwhelm. Richie fought against himself, concentrated hard on not letting go even as he was pulled inexorably towards surrender. He'd been given head before, plenty of times, but this was no half-drunk half-hour with an anonymous ( _mouth_ ) man. This _mattered_ and if he could, Richie would have been embarrassed by his sentimentality at a _blowjob_ but there was no space, no neuron unaccounted for and he was only eyes and a heart and a dick anyway, with vacant space in between, and _ohhhh Jesus_ electricity was pouring down his front now and _how has he never done this before?_ And _do you think he might be sick if I blow in his mouth cause I think I'm gonna-_

"Oh my God, _stop_!" Richie bowed reflexively downward, seizing Eddie's hand to stay its movement along his shaft. Eddie clocked the desperation in his voice and very carefully pulled away, as Richie lay deathly still and drew deep breaths, eyes closed. When he opened them, he saw Eddie laying by his side, looking flushed and pleased. It was still too much.

"Hold on a second." He rolled over and then stood up, allowing his boxers to fall to the floor as he did so, then quickly crossed to the bathroom and closed the door.

Eddie was confused until he heard the faucet running, and the sound of water splashed up into a face. Richie came back holding a towel and dabbing at his face, chest, and hair, which were all dripping with cold water. Eddie laughed openly at the sight, a laugh which redoubled when he looked down at Richie's legs; until now Richie's goddamned ridiculous tattoo had been covered by his boxers, and Eddie had forgotten all about it. _This fucking guy._

"Phew! That was a close one," Richie reflected soberly, not quite keeping the amusement from his eyes as he jumped back onto the bed.

Eddie let the tattoo go for now and stacked his forearms onto Richie's chest, resting his chin on top to stare at his lover. He cocked an eyebrow, "Not bad for a first try?"

"Oh, I'd give it a solid 'C'," Richie responded in a deadpan.

"Bull _shit,_ Richard, you looked like your soul was trying to leave your body," he countered, "through your dick."

Richie snorted. "You're right, you're a natural... Do you think you get that from your mother's side, or your Dad's?"

"Awfully bold for a man who's got his junk exposed, don't you think?" Eddie pinched gently at Richie's nipple, in a gesture of caution.

"Ah! Alright, you kinky bitch, I surrender!"

Eddie laughed and rubbed conciliatorily at the assaulted nipple. "That's better," he grinned.

The two men gazed at each other a long moment, and then Eddie shifted an arm to allow his mouth contact with Richie's chest, where he applied several slow, demure kisses, before resting his head back down. Richie threaded the fingers of his left hand into Eddie's slightly ruffled hair, kneading lightly at his scalp.

"So... What now?" he asked.

Eddie drew a breath and looked thoughtful, though he'd come to a decision some time ago. "I- I want-" he faltered, suddenly embarrassed to ask for it. Forty years of social programming will do that to a person.

"Eds?" Richie encouraged.

He drew another breath. "I want to... To do it. _Do it."_

"You wanna fuck?" _Trashmouthed as ever._

"Yeah, I wanna fuck."

"Okay..." Richie thought for a moment. "Do... I can bottom, it's your first time-"

"No," Eddie shook his head, "I want _you_ to do _me."_

Only a slight crack in Richie's voice, well controlled despite the image flooding his brain–Eddie's language was vague, but there was no mistaking his intention. "Eds, are you sure? It can be, you know, hard the first time... We've done a lot already today." _You've_ done a lot already today, Mr. Hetero-Monogamy.

"Yeah, it's what I want." Eddie added hastily, "You'll go slow though, won't you?"

Richie stopped stroking Eddie's hair and regarded his boyfriend's expression; he was serious. "Of course I will," he replied, "as slow as you want." With that, Richie pressed a hand to Eddie's side, signalling him to move over, and slid out from beneath him.

Looking on in nervous curiosity, Eddie watched Richie pick up his discarded pants from the floor and search the pockets, coming away with his wallet and quickly retrieving a condom. Seeing this, Eddie sighed in relief of tension he hadn't realised he was carrying. It had been surprisingly easy to bar the doors of his mind against fear when he took Richie in his mouth, but his newfound, tentative freedom didn't mean he was stupid, and ever since he'd decided how far he wanted to go with Richie, small drops of anxiety had been pooling at the back of his mind: What if Richie didn't have a rubber, or didn't want to use one? Eddie realised now how absurd the latter thought was; Richie would never, in a thousand years try to coerce him into something like that. The realisation needled a touch, was bittersweet; how long since he'd had a person close to him respect his boundaries, prioritise his needs? Little wonder he'd half-expected to be guilted into acquiescence _. Yes, but that's over_ , he reminded himself, choosing instead to revel in gratitude for the moment–and man–at hand _._

Richie saw Eddie eyeing the condom and misattributed his interest, felt the need to explain. "Is it alright, Eds? I'm usually pretty careful but I still think it's a good idea, just to be safe."

The statement punctured Eddie's introspection. "What? Oh, yeah, of course... God knows where you've been." Richie drew himself up in mock affront, but Eddie cut off his retort, noticing the second item in his hand. "Is that a tiny packet of lube? Do people actually use those?" His earnest curiosity was so disarming that Richie couldn't help but laugh. He laid down alongside Eddie and ran a hand across his chest. "Some particularly thoughtful and well-prepared people do... You can thank me later." Confusion muddled Eddie's features for a moment, until he remembered the mechanics of what was about to happen. "Oh... Yeah."

Condom quickly unwrapped and unrolled, Richie reached down to caress Eddie's hard-on, asking gently as he did, "So, how would you like to do this? If you go on top you can be in control, or it might be more comfortable from behind-"

"Uh-uh." The dominant and protective energy of Richie's substantial form hovering over him had not left Eddie's mind. "I want you to go on top of me."

Richie swallowed, a tell that Eddie was becoming quite familiar with. "Okay, you're the boss."

Eddie was spared his question of how to begin by the pointed display of Richie spreading lube onto his hand. Richie heard his deep, steadying breath and checked his face once more, finding some nervousness but no hesitation.

True to his word, Richie took it slow, working in first one finger then a second, whilst plying Eddie's face and neck with soft kisses. For Eddie, it felt strange and almost unpleasant, at least in the beginning, and he had to focus in on Richie's mouth to rebuff thoughts of hand sanitiser, the brushed steel and antiseptic tang of the doctor's surgery. Little by little though, dormant nerve endings fired to life, and Eddie became aware that his breath was quickening. Tiny sounds began to escape his mouth, falling like dewdrops into Richie's grateful ear.

Gentle hand moving ceaselessly between his lover's thighs, Richie tracked his kisses onto Eddie's chest, levelling ear to mouth to allow the whimpers, now steadying into a stream, to flow in. He bathed in them, and worked away patiently until a slackening of sensation signalled that it was time. Richie kissed his way back onto Eddie's mouth, brushing aside the hair that had fallen across Eddie's forehead to look into his eyes. At the nodded response to his implied question, Richie moved and gently rearranged Eddie's legs, so that he was again, between them. Eddie took his boyfriend's face in his hands, and they watched each other carefully as Richie began to move. He inched forward, vigilant for any sign of displeasure. For Eddie there was pressure, only pressure for some long seconds, and then a small, bright flare that warned rather than hurt. A minute contraction of his face signalled Richie to pause, and Eddie closed his eyes, tried to conjure the feeling of slipping into a hot bath with a head full of Valium. He directed his body to relax into the warm water and it obeyed, a small nod clearing Richie to resume his progress. Slowly, slowly Richie pushed on, noting less resistance now. Seconds, maybe minutes passed as Eddie breathed deeply, signalling stop-go to his partner with almost telepathic subtlety. 

A dull ache was beginning to spread across Richie's shoulders as he hovered over Eddie's body, but he patiently dismissed it, continuing his slow, deliberate progress until finally, his length was paid out. When Eddie registered that Richie had stopped moving, he was momentarily taken by the reality of it all; it couldn't get much further than this.

"You good?" Richie whispered.

"I'm good. Are you?"

"I'm very good. I'm going to start moving now, okay?"

"Okay."

Richie proceeded into small, slow, deliberate strokes, renewing his concentration on Eddie's expression. Nothing much showed there for a short while, but then Eddie's mouth dropped open a mite, betraying an increase in the force of his breathing. Richie heeded the cue and sped up a little, splitting his attention now to invite the slight ache in his shoulders. A sense of unreality swept intermittently over him. _So, this is what it's like to fuck someone you love._ It was so perfect that his mind struggled to accept it, was ill-equipped to understand it as anything other than a dream. Presently Eddie's breath took on a low vocalisation, which gradually escalated in pitch and volume. _Nothing imaginary about that._ Richie drew some more of the sound out of Eddie, and then had to move an extra portion of focus to the pain in his arms. 

A film of perspiration covered his face, loosened his glasses to slide down his nose. One-handed he ripped them off, rubbed the back of his arm roughly across his face and put the glasses back on. They were a pain in the dick to wear, but the stone-cold fucking _hottie_ beneath him demanded 20/20 vision. Richie then hastened his thrusts another notch, and immediately Eddie's brows knitted upwards over widening eyes. The image sent a warning shot into Richie's groin and drew a desperate note from his larynx. He screwed up his concentration and kept going, giving as much of himself as he could to the burning in his deltoids. Eddie was frankly moaning now, mouth wide as his brown eyes blazed into Richie's. It was a sight to behold, and Richie realised with some dismay that he would not last much longer. Suddenly he shifted his arms to widen the angle of their bodies and dove a hand between them, applying firm, rapid strokes along the length of Eddie's erection. It sent Eddie into the stratosphere.

"Oh fuck, Rich I-"

The words died in Eddie's throat as he was dragged into rigid silence; forehead creased over knotted brows, mouth hanging open with head thrown back; a frozen, breathless moment, and then full-body collapse as his lungs pressed out a loud, drawn-out moan. A _showstopper._ It obliterated Richie's hold on his own climax, and as Eddie quivered through the final strains of orgasm he let go, arching backwards into surrender as bright shapes exploded behind his eyelids. _Nirvana._

When finally the wave receded, it took with it all strength from Richie's arms, and he collapsed onto Eddie's chest. For a long while he just lay there, breathing hard into his lover's neck as Eddie stroked one hand through his damp hair, the other across the heaving plane of his back. Eddie allowed his mind to wander idly through the near-silence. He meditated on the mechanics of orgasm; nerves and chemicals and sodium channels, a specific cascade of biological dominoes that formed the human climax. The evolutionary imperative that ensured the propagation of genes, the survival of species. At least, that was how he'd always seen it: clinical, almost robotic. As explicable as the effects of an antibiotic on the human body. He didn't know it could be like _this_. Spiritual whackery was for the patchouli-scented dipshits who did yoga in Central Park, but... What just happened was no cousin to the joyless relief ground out in his dark bathroom, dark bedroom, dark of his eyelids blocking out the form of his wife. _This is what sex feels like when you're in love._ He smiled, a little out of joy, a little out of embarrassment at the sappiness of the thought. Then, as if summoned by his contentment, the awful knowledge that he had almost chosen his small, dissatisfied life with Myra over Richie clouded Eddie's mind. It was almost too much to bear _. Let it go_ , he told himself _, don't ruin this_. 

Slowly, the hateful thought drifted from his mind, as he occupied himself instead with the sensations of Richie; Richie's weight pressing down on him, the scent of his hair, the sound of his breath. Eddie felt strong, with his arms wrapped protectively around the man almost twice his size. He would fight that fucking clown fifty times over, fight the whole goddamn world for that man, and he hoped that Richie could feel it. Not wanting to talk, he pressed the sentiment in through his hands, taking in as he did the slick warmth of Richie's back, the film of perspiration slowly drying from his skin. Eddie flattened his palm and felt into the rhythm of Richie's breath, ribs expanding and contracting smoothly as his respiration slowed back to normal. Though unconscious to its origins, Eddie was permeated by a deep calm, soothed by the regular rise and fall that has comforted infants at their mothers' breast for all of human history. Far apart from the comfort of his own mother however, this was a comfort without limits, without strings; stable as bedrock, with none of the unpredictable tectonic tremors of Sonia's foundation. For the first time in his life, Eddie had found solid ground, but he didn't think about that. He didn't think about anything, only drifted deeper in the amniotic rhythm of Richie's body.

Before too long, the peaceful metronome swing was punctuated by a wrong beat, drawing Eddie's attention back to the present. For a moment he thought he'd imagined it, but a second hitching breath from beneath his hand cemented its reality.

"Hey, what's wrong?" he asked. Richie steadied his breathing, but the damp warmth on Eddie's neck confirmed that he had been crying. "Are you okay?"

"Yes, I'm fine," came his muffled voice. "I'm being stupid, just ignore me."

Eddie tried to turn his face towards Richie's, but Richie resisted the gestured invitation of eye contact, instead burying his face further into Eddie's neck.

"No, Richie, what's the matter?"

A muffled response.

"What? I can't hear you."

Richie sighed, pulled back so that his face was next to Eddie's.

"I'm fine Eds, really! I'm just- ugh... I'm just _happy._ "

Relieved, Eddie laughed gently at Richie's self-consciousness. "Yeah?"

"Yeah."

Eddie grasped the sides of Richie's head, pulling his face gently but insistently into view. Tears shone on Richie's cheeks, but he had given up on hiding them.

"I'm happy too," Eddie smiled, and to relieve Richie's discomfort–and because he wanted to–he pulled Richie's head downwards to plant a series of small, fast kisses across his cheeks and forehead. Richie laughed wetly and slid his arms behind Eddie's back, momentarily squeezing the breath out of him before letting go to roll backwards onto the mattress. He let out a loud sigh, allowed his body to relax for a moment before all but crawling across Eddie to retrieve his phone from the floor. He glanced at the screen.

"Twelve minutes left." He raised an eyebrow suggestively. "Wanna go again?"

Eddie laughed, "Get off me, you sex maniac."

Richie pouted dramatically. "Fine then, be that way." He stood and began to dress.

Eddie watched him for a second, wondering how long it would take to get used to the sight of Richie's naked chest, until he remembered:

"Pizza!"

He leapt out of bed and began gathering his clothes, and Richie laughed openly at his enthusiasm. When they were both cleaned up and dressed, Eddie made for the door and Richie followed, stopping him as he reached for the handle. He weaved both hands into Eddie's hair and pressed a long kiss onto his mouth, savouring the last of their private intimacies before they ventured into the world, together. Richie then turned the handle without a word, holding the door open for Eddie and winking as his boyfriend passed through.

***

The afternoon sun streaming into the yard was starting to drive up the temperature beneath the awning, though it wasn't yet uncomfortable. Certainly, the cold drinks in Richie's and Eddie's hands–overpriced bourbon-and-coke and gin-and-tonic from the minibar–were helping. Both cans were one-third from full, by the time the others could be heard returning to the Town House. Even through the closed back door, it was clear that they–especially Bev–were making an obscene amount of noise; stamping hard on the wooden floor and making loud, pointed remarks such as "I REALLY HOPE EDDIE LIKES PEPERRONI". Richie leaned over from his seat to throw the door open, shouting "we're out here, calm your tits!" toward the unseen voices inside.

"Oh," came Bev's response, followed by a snigger from Bill.

When the four Losers passed out onto the deck, they found Eddie and Richie seated at the table, each with a can of alcohol in one hand and the fingers of their partner intertwined in the other. Eddie’s legs were across Richie's lap, and the two men stared at their friends expectantly. Delighting openly at their overt physical intimacy, Bev clapped her hands together with a grin and bounced childishly on her toes. Bill rolled his eyes at her, not unkindly, and settled into a chair whilst tossing a large pizza box onto the table.

"Yesssss," muttered Eddie, tearing his hand away from Richie's to open the box in near-religious rapture. He inhaled the cheese-and-tomato aroma as Ben, Mike, and Beverley also took their seats. "Oh my God, I don't think I've ever been this hungry!" He tore into the dough and stuffed almost an entire slice into his mouth, clearly in a world of his own until he looked up and found the others staring at him.

"What?" he demanded, the sound muffled by copious amounts of cheese and bread. Ben burst out laughing, and Richie shook his head.

"You're exquisite. You simply must let me paint you," Richie fawned, and the rest of the table erupted into over-the-top laughter, each of the six friends relieved that it wasn't awkward. Indeed, save for some extra physical affection, and no doubt an increase in explicit sexual remarks to be had in future, the dynamic was more or less unchanged.

"Shut the fuck up," Eddie muttered, though wasted precious little energy on defending himself and quickly dove back into the pizza. Richie helped himself to a slice, considered making some joke about needing carbs after his vigorous horizontal workout, and then changed his mind; it was nice to keep something for himself, just for a little while.

The six Losers spent the long afternoon watching shadows move across the yard, becoming warm and sleepy, and eventually a little drunk. There was talk, and more food, and each of them went to their beds that night a little sad to be parting the following morning, but comforted that this time at least, it would not really be goodbye. Eddie lay awake for a while; he was used to drifting off to the sound of snoring, but the heavy arm draped across him–though welcome–took some getting used to. His mind, unaccustomed to idleness, started to confect insidious little anxieties: _What now?_ Nightmare scenarios were coalescing, spreading hatefully across his vision, when Richie's arm moved unexpectedly, hand sliding beneath Eddie's pyjama top to settle on his chest and draw him close.

"Stop it," Richie murmured into his ear.

"What?" replied Eddie, a little startled.

"You know what." Richie kissed sleepily at the back of Eddie's head. "Cut that shit out and go to sleep."

Eddie said nothing, and after a long silence he supposed that Richie had fallen back asleep. The command had sliced clean through the vivid tableaux in Eddie's mind, and as he settled back into the darkness his monsters were made small, impotent... Almost ludicrous. The change in perspective was fresh and unfamiliar, almost shocking in its contrast, and not for the first time Eddie had the sense of being a different person from the one who had crawled into those dark sewers less than a full day before. _Less than a day?_ It seemed like a week, at least. Still, old habits die hard, and Eddie could feel his mind slowly and slyly trying to again take hold of him, to interrogate facts and find some reason why things were not as good as they seemed. This time he was prepared, though, and by focusing on the sound of Richie's breath, and the rise and fall of the warm chest against his back, Eddie was again surprised at how readily the worries were driven from his head. Once more, Richie's voice rose softly, sleepily out of the dark.

"Everything is okay."

And for the first time in his life, Eddie saw that it was.

** Part 6/Epilogue **

Hot tears splashed down Eddie's face. He let them fall as he stared miserably out of the taxi window. In his left hand was his cell phone, which he rubbed idly with his thumb. The muscle memory of his fingers yearned for the cold-metal-smooth-plastic comfort of his inhaler, the way it fit perfectly into the curve of his palm, but the phone would have to do. Long, golden-hour shadows flickered across his face, and he allowed himself a few minutes of blank sadness; it would take a while to get to East Elmhurst, there was no hurry. The driver had been nice enough or disinterested enough or uncomfortable enough to leave him be, and Eddie watched the buildings slip by in silence, looking but not really seeing them. Eventually, he sighed and unlocked his phone, speed-dialling his most recent contact. Richie's warm voice held him, soothed his grief.

"Hey, Eds."

"Hey, I’m in the cab." He sniffed loudly, like a sad child.

"Oh Eds, you're crying... Did you look at the meter?"

Eddie laughed wetly. True, the fare ticking upwards on the dial would make anyone's eyes water.

"Beep beep, Richie... It was horrible."

Eddie had arrived home in the late afternoon to find the house deserted. For a second he considered dashing in and out, escaping with his suitcase before she could find him, but he knew all the while that he could never do it. Possibly, one of the forty-or-so voice messages Myra had left him over the past few days might give a clue as to her whereabouts, but the prospect of listening to them was too grim to attempt. Instead, he took a shower; the eight-hour journey from Derry to Boston to New York had left him feeling crumpled and gross, and he longed to wear clean clothes for the first time in days.

The water pressure was, as always, incredible, and Eddie remembered the happy afternoon he and Myra had spent choosing the new bathroom fixtures. He tried vainly to shake the memory from his mind. It had been so easy, the whole way in from the airport, to think about all the ways Myra had hurt him, humiliated him, kept him small. He worked these slights and injuries into a towering form, a malevolent Myra-Goliath for him to righteously knock down. It had made him bold, but now, in the quiet house surrounded by their things, he could see good parts of Myra, too; the life they had together, and the times when he was glad of her. The Golem formed from the clay of his hurt and anger crumbled like old plaster, leaving only Myra–soft and human and possessing of a heart–and Eddie felt pain; he was really going to hurt her today. 

He thought about other times he had hurt her, ( _almost_ ) always without meaning to. She was like a grenade of glass, enormous emotions condensed within a brittle shell, ready to be unleashed by the smallest of impacts. Myra's display when Eddie had left for Derry, its escalation when she sensed that he was not yielding as he always did, was Eddie's last memory of his wife. If that was "I'm leaving for a few days, and I can't tell you why", then "I'm leaving you for good because I'm gay and in love" was going to be a real show. The thought made Eddie very nervous, and he had to turn the water cold, to keep his head.

After his shower, Eddie packed a large suitcase full of clean clothes, and tossed in the few pill-bottle sentries he'd left behind to guard the medicine cabinet _. At-ease, soldiers_. Myra still was not home, so he wandered restlessly around the house, taking in the flotsam and jetsam of five years of marriage, seven years of cohabitation. Eye running across their shared and individual possessions, Eddie decided, or confirmed, that he didn't want any of it. Myra could keep it all, or burn it, or Eddie could have someone come and take away anything she didn't want to look at. None of it was important enough to enter into some kind of horrible, drawn-out court battle; _and,_ Eddie realised _, if I try to take anything, that's what will happen_. The prospect of a clean break, striding into his new life without the weight of material and emotional detritus was certainly more appealing than dividing their CD collection, paying lawyers to write endless letters on behalf of Kaspbrak and Kaspbrak.

Eddie was zipping up his suitcase with an air of finality when he remembered: Reaching high into the hallway cupboard, he took down the green cookie tin and nestled it carefully amongst his clothes, but not before taking out the package wrapped in the white handkerchief. The cool hardness of the glasses lens was reassuring, as he sat for the last time at Mr. and Mrs. Kaspbrak's kitchen table. He turned it over lovingly in his hands, and marvelled at the changes that had occurred since the last time he ran a thumb over its cracked surface. The lens worked between his fingers like a rosary as Eddie prayed silently to someone or something–maybe the universe, maybe just himself–for the strength to go through with this final act. His new life was so close now he could almost see it in the curved glass, the silent image of Richie again gazing back at him, grown now and beckoning. 

_So close. Just one more thing._ His bags were in the guest room at the front of the house, shielded from view but within feet of the front door. There was nothing left to do except say goodbye. Just tell her, pick up your bags, and get out the door. _Easy peasy, lemon-squeezy... Jesus Christ. She might actually kill me this time_. Eddie closed his eyes and drew a steadying breath, replaying Richie's words: _'Everything is okay'. Remember why you're doing this._ Still the sacred object turned between his fingers. _You're okay._ He made a mental pact with himself; _just do this last thing, and then you can begin. One last thing, then you can begin. Last thing, then begin. Last–_ Myra's keys rattled in the front door. Eddie's heart leapt into his throat and he hurriedly stuffed the smooth glass into his pocket, exiting the kitchen before his courage could fail him.

She screamed when she saw him.

"Eddie! Oh, Eddie. You're back! I've been so worried!" The waterworks were starting already as she ran to him, seizing him tightly around the middle.

"Hey, My."

"I was _so worried,_ " she repeated.  
Myra was wasting no time, already dialling up into light sobs as she directed her tears into the crook of his neck, and Eddie saw that she had no intention of letting him off lightly. There were going to be hours, days, maybe even weeks of emotional warfare, until she was satisfied that he had learned his lesson–at least, that's what Myra thought–and her sobs now were but the opening strains of a symphony for the ages. Myra's crying always made Eddie feel like shit; like a callous aggressor that has laid a boot into something small and fragile. The movie villain that hits the kid, or shoots the stray dog. Loathsome. That familiar old shame came slinking home now, but to Eddie's surprise seemed to stop at the threshold. _'I'll wait, Eddie,_ ' it seemed to say. _'I'm not going anywhere, but you've got shit to do, old friend. Here–I'll give you a head start'._ Myra's sobs were intensifying, threateningly close to a wail now. She was picking up speed like a snowball rolling downhill, and soon would be beyond intervention. _Now. Do it now, Eddie_. Arms still pinned at his sides by Myra’s tight embrace, Eddie reached into his pocket and rubbed the curved glass talisman inside.

"Myra... _Myra._ " He shrugged his shoulders to wriggle out of her grip. "Marty, come on. Come on now, let's talk."

She drew back and blinked at him, naked confusion showing on her face. This was not part of the script. Eddie grasped her shoulders gently, and Myra allowed herself to be led, speechless, into the living room and down to seated beside her husband.

"My..." Eddie took her hands, looked into her eyes. His trembling fingers and pale face frightened her, but his voice was clear and even, which frightened her more.

Eddie drew a deep breath, and began.

It was awful. Eddie was right to expect that Myra's response to his leaving for Derry would pale in comparison to this. Once she recovered from her shock at his frank disclosure (no mean feat in itself, overtaken as she was by dumb disbelief for almost a full minute), Myra pulled out all the stops, drawing wildly from her cache of emotional weapons like some caricature of the 'seven stages of grief' (well, six of them at least). She had scoffed, dismissed, yelled, screamed, cried performative tears of manipulation, cried genuine tears of desperation when the former made no impression, apologised, begged, threatened, thrown up homophobic slurs, thrown up in earnest, invoked the name of Eddie's mother, invoked the name of Eddie's father, tried to call their therapist, cried some more, and slapped him. Eddie sat through her performance for about half an hour, alternately furious, devastated, tired, and occasionally amused. At first he tried to answer her questions, but quickly realised they were not questions at all, but either simple barbs, or hooks meant to bait him into discourse, create a foothold for her to convince him of his folly. From then he just sat quietly, allowing her words to wash over him, throwing in the occasional "I'm sorry, Myra," because it was true.

When finally she slapped him Eddie's eyes, which were half-glazed as he waited for her diatribe to wind down, snapped to focus. Myra was already coming in for a second assault and he raised his left arm, the arm Richie had saved, to block her hand. Seeing the look in his eyes, Myra faltered, the strength going from her blow so that she connected only softly with the outside of Eddie's forearm. In her eyes Eddie registered fear, not just of his leaving–which, to her terror, she had finally realised she could not prevent–but of that look. Myra had never seen that look before, and it frightened her because she had no script for what it meant, or how she could control it.

Eddie lowered his arm, catching sight as he did of the red scratch across his hand. He had fought the clown alongside his _(family)_ friends _,_ and had been lucky beyond words to escape with his life, let alone his arm. He had been brave and strong and was still both of those things, and just as the Losers had put an end to its miserable life, it was time to put an end to _this_ miserable life.

Myra flinched as Eddie rose, but he only strode soundlessly across the room into the hallway. She heard the spare room door open, the scrape of canvas as a suitcase was dragged around the doorframe, and then Eddie opened the front door and was gone.

-

Richie was quiet after Eddie finished his story, and Eddie knew that he wanted to curse Myra out with every insult under the sun, and a few as yet unthought-of. Instead, Richie drew a steadying breath and managed to control himself.

"I'm sorry Eds. That does sound horrible."

"Thanks, Rich."

Eddie was grateful for Richie's restraint. True to its promise, his shame had caught up with him on his way out the door, and despite the physical assault–a depth to which Myra had never sunk before–and despite the names and the screaming and the frank and furious attempts at manipulation, a big part of Eddie still felt terribly guilty; he knew he'd feel compelled to defend her if Richie started in, and he didn't want to do that.

"How far away are you?" Richie asked.

Eddie echoed the question to his driver.

"About ten minutes."

"Oh, good. Well I'll see you in a minute then. Just make sure you keep crying, kay? I like 'em snotty."

Eddie laughed and said goodbye, ending the call. He felt better for hearing Richie's voice; still sad, but better, and with each passing mile his thoughts were consumed less by the past he was leaving behind, and more by the future he was speeding towards.

The taxi driver's strong New Jersey accent broke into Eddie's thoughts a short while later.

"Here you are."

They pulled up to the Comfort Inn near LaGuardia, and the driver punched a few buttons to finalise the fare. Eddie hadn't yet seen the motel; he had taken another expensive cab straight from the airport to his–no, _Myra_ 's–house, and left Richie to sort out their accommodation for the night. As soon as he had paid Eddie stepped out of the cab, eyeballing the hotel. He took in the dated brick facade and side wall of the building, small windows overlooking the low-budget car rental yard next door. It was beautiful. _I just left my wife. I am Richie's and he is mine, and tomorrow I will wake up in a two-star hotel bed with the man I love. And then he will take me home._ This ugly cube of a building was the place where they would start the rest of their lives together; to Eddie it could have been Versailles. 

Almost at the entrance now, Eddie he was busy hoping that the desk attendant would give him the room number without any fuss when Richie came striding out through the sliding glass doors. He was smiling, and beautiful, and Eddie couldn't help but grin. He opened his mouth to tease Richie about his choice of hotel but was immediately silenced, as Richie took him roughly into his arms and drew him into a passionate kiss. The sheer ardour left Eddie weak, and his knees might have gone were it not for the strong arms wrapped firmly about his torso. Eventually, Richie pulled back and–after briefly enjoying Eddie's dazed expression–took Eddie by one hand and grasped the suitcase in his other, pulling both wordlessly into the building.

Quickly they ascended to the second floor, Eddie unabashedly appreciating the flex of Richie's bicep as he hauled the case up the stairs and threw open door 209. Confusingly for Eddie, Richie held out an arm to bar his entry whilst quickly dragging the suitcase through the doorway, then turned around to give him an appraising, up-and-down look. Apparently satisfied, Richie stepped back out of the room and before Eddie could question him, swept Eddie up in his arms and managed with some effort to carry him across the threshold. Eddie giggled, a short trill of surprise becoming a genuine laugh, and Richie laid him gently down onto the bed.

"I thought it was only right," he offered, gazing down at Eddie with amusement and adoration. Eddie only laughed again and pulled Richie down on top of him, kissing and smiling against his mouth. He didn't want to talk about Myra. He didn't want to talk about anything. He had left all of his sadness in the back of the cab, and right now he only wanted to make more joy.

***

It was before eight the next morning when Eddie felt Richie slide out of bed. He made a small sound of displeasure; checkout wasn't until ten and he'd anticipated a nice, cuddly sleep-in. Nevertheless, he rolled over and went back to sleep alone, waking again just after nine to find a note on Richie's pillow. The childish scrawl seemed to read:

 _Gone to get car–back soon_.

With no way of knowing when the note was written or when 'soon' was, Eddie thought he'd better get ready to check-out, and hope Richie would be back in time. He took a shower, and then ate the cold toast and tiny packet of cereal he found languishing on a tray on the little Formica table, accompanied by another note:

_Eat this, you grumpy shit :)_

By nine-forty Richie still hadn't returned, and Eddie became restless. Underneath the standard-issue _King James_ in one of the nightstands, he found a battered and outdated book of maps, which he took back to the table. Trying and (mostly) succeeding not to think about all the hands that had touched its pages, Eddie opened the book to a full map of the contiguous United States, tracing his finger across the middle and marvelling at the distance they had to travel. Richie had baulked at the idea of flying straight from New York to LA; he had already welched on four tour dates and his agent-friend was mad as hell, but as he told Eddie, "she's gonna kick my ass anyway, I may as well keep my anus functional for a few extra days." Then, after a pause to enjoy the other’s wrinkle-nosed distaste, "Plus, as soon as I get back she'll have me straight to work, and right now I only wanna hang out with you." Richie acted like he didn't appreciate Eddie's mimed sickness at that second remark, but there was a twinkle in his eye said that said he did. Eddie lived for that twinkle.

Time was wearing on as Eddie flipped idly through the book, wondering how many days it would take them to get to LA–to get _home_ –when his phone rang.

"I'm nearly back with the car. Meet you out front?"

"Sure. Everything go okay?" asked Eddie.

"Yeah... Why?"

"Well, you've been gone at least an hour, and the car place in right next door."

"Oh, yeah they didn't have a place to drop the car off when we get to LA, so I had to go get one from the airport instead. Then I had to drive to Brooklyn to pick up your two-day anniversary gift."

"Seriously?" Eddie tried for affectionate mocking but couldn't keep the delight from his voice. He loved presents. "What is it?"

"You'll see. Catch you in a minute."

Packed and ready, Eddie only needed to drag his case downstairs and drop off the room key. He was out front in less than five minutes, but Richie had not yet arrived, so he perched lightly on the edge of the large suitcase and waited. Several cars pulled into the lot while he waited and Eddie looked expectantly into each of them, but none were driven by the man he was already missing. He was beginning to feel silly each time he stood up and squinted into the car windows, and was wishing vaguely that he knew what to look for, when a cherry-red Mustang GT pulled into the lot. Eddie laughed openly; the plates were different, of course, but by all other measures it was the same exact, obnoxious car Richie had driven to and from Derry. He was still laughing as it pulled around in front of him, and Richie called lecherously though the open passenger window, "Ay, Sweetcheeks! Need a ride?"

"Ridiculous." Eddie shook his head with a helpless smile. Leaving the car running, Richie jumped out to help Eddie with his bag, but Eddie had already found the latch on the trunk.

"No, wait! Your present is in there and it isn't wrap-"

He was too slow, and Eddie opened the trunk to find a large, brown Ikea box with ' _GÅRÖ/RISÖ_ ' printed on the side. Alongside the text was the black-line image of a hammock.

"I thought we could make up for lost time."

Eddie took one look at Richie's sheepish grin and burst into tears. He threw himself against his boyfriend and hugged him around the middle, burying his face wetly into Richie's chest.

"I fucking love you."

Richie laughed softly and kissed the top of his head. "I fucking love you too, Eds."

Forty-five minutes later, the fingers of Eddie's left hand were intertwined in Richie's right, as they glided along the I-80. While Richie watched the road, Eddie watched the rear-view mirror, the New York skyline growing small and distant and with it, his old life, until both were gone from view.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much for reading! This is the first fic I have ever written and it took me aaaages, so please be kind, but also let me know what you think!
> 
> If there are any triggers I haven't tagged that you think should be, just let me know and I'll add them.
> 
> Tumblr: loose-hers-club
> 
> Title is from a Jack Ladder and the Dreamlanders Song:  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KIsYk3-sP0A


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